


A Substitute for a Hatstand

by TheRimmerConnection



Series: The Hatstand Trilogy [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: A little more angst than expected when planned, A recognition of the merits of a hatstand, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Sequel, Something which in anybody else but Holmes might be called selflessness, Total and utter idiocy, desperate hugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRimmerConnection/pseuds/TheRimmerConnection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'An Improvement on a Hatstand'. Watson and Holmes seem to have settled down into a managable relationship, albeit one that is not always satisfactory from Watson's point of view. However, Sherlock is rumbling on about things that cannot be true, and Watson has never been able to resist Holmes, even when he knows full well that he's being deliberately aggravating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rumblings

**Author's Note:**

> Nope, Mr Holmes and Mr Watson still do not belong to me, I am merely enjoying their company. I don't often write sequels, largely because I love first times so much, but I had to make an exception here and decide on a trilogy, because Watson asked nicely.

_'Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.' Proverbs 4:23 (NIV)_

 

* * *

  
  
'A lady was at the door earlier, asking for you, Doctor,' Mrs Hudson said as she bustled in with the tea things and edged Holmes' elbows aside to set them on the table.  
  
'Oh yes?' I asked.  
  
'A Mrs Deynforth, I think she said. When I told her you were out, she asked to be remembered to you, said she is engaged for the rest of today, but might return tomorrow afternoon if that is convenient.'  
  
Mrs Deynforth... My mind turned over for a second or two, searching for a face to match the name, then I recalled it. The lady with whom we had taken tea following her involvement in the case we had been obliged to take on that day, four months ago, when I should much sooner have stayed in with Holmes.  
  
That had been the day on which we had first enjoyed carnal knowledge of each other in the fullest sense. the first day I had known what it was to have Holmes in me, or to be in him, pressed together closer than the boundaries that divide two people can stretch.  
  
The memory leapt in my stomach and I glanced up at Holmes. At present he looked dreadful. His eyes were circled by dark rings, puffy and ill-looking. He was mid-case, a vile case: a murdered wife, a petty set of motives, a respectable-seeming villain... or so Holmes was trying to prove. I had been out with him every day upon it, but his mind was engaged, and just as he had shrunk from me when we had been chasing Milverton, he now removed himself from me once more. The action was not callous, but it was painful for me. I understood, yet I could not understand. Our nights together, wrapped in each others' arms had been a delight, and these past two weeks had been a terrible wrench to me.  
  
Holmes hardly slept at times like this, and although he came to my room three and four nights a week, he simply sat in my chair, chewing on his fingers, and waving me into silence with a careless hand if I attempted conversation with him.  
  
I went to the table, poured two cups of tea and pushed one towards Holmes, which he ignored. I got up, walked around to him and tried to catch his eye. He was not reading the newspaper held up like a fortress wall in front of him, so I tugged it gently out of his hands, which he allowed.  
  
'Holmes, dear fellow, do take a sip of tea, at least. You look like death.'  
  
'Tchah!' was all the answer I got.  
  
'Please. For my sake?' He glanced at me then, caught my eye, rolled his own and reached for the cup, pulling it towards him by the saucer, but not picking it up. I sighed and sat opposite him, taking a sip from my own cup.  
  
'Did you hear Mrs Hudson? We may expect a visitor tomorrow. Do you think we'll be in?'  
  
He shrugged. 'I heard.' He picked up his cup and held it balanced between the tips of the fingers of both hands, elbows on the table. He swirled it round a few times. 'You may be, if you wish. I must go to Vauxhall.'  
  
'Do you need me?'  
  
He took a sharp breath, but then his lips snapped shut and he shook his head. 'Not unduly. No, Watson, stay here and receive the lady. I am sure it will be more amusing than accompanying me.'  
  
I found that infuriating. The way in which he began by suggesting he did not need me then turned it at the last, so that I felt I was being let go on sufferance, that I was being told what I wished for myself.  
  
'Holmes,' I said, unable to conceal the anger in my voice, 'I will come with you if you wish. I am sure I would rather be at your side if you need me.'  
  
'I have said I do not,' he replied curtly.  
  
I tried to control my temper, to remain calm and not fall into the trap of letting my irritation boil over into rage.  
  
'Very well, if you are sure, I will stay here: it is polite, after all. But if you find you need me at any time, will you send for me?'  
  
He grunted non-committally and I watched him. He seemed uninterested as to whether or not I came with him.  
  
But when I had almost taken my gaze away, I caught the movement of his hand – the tight, white-knuckle clench, sudden and savage on the handle of his tea cup.

 

* * *

  
  
Holmes was gone before I emerged from my room, rubbing my eyes, the next morning. My annoyance with him persisted. I recognised the same air of jealousy he had displayed the first time we had met Mrs Deynforth. I could do nothing about it. I had no plans to court the lady, I was merely glad to see a pleasant woman, for whom perhaps I might be able to perform some little service.  
  
I spent the morning catching up with some notes on our most recently completed cases – the current one having stolen time out from under me. Mrs Hudson supplied an excellent luncheon, and at half past two, I heard her open the door and a lighter female voice floated up the stairs.  
  
Mrs Deynforth, when Mrs Hudson showed her in, looked a little abashed, so I quickly set her at ease, sending for tea and taking her coat.  
  
'I hope I am not taking up time you were intending to spend some other way?' she asked.  
  
'Not at all!' I assured her, showing her to a seat on the sofa and drawing up a chair for myself. 'It's a pleasure to see you again. You are up in London for a few days?'  
  
'Three,' she replied. 'Really I had a little business to conduct, settling a small matter, which kept me occupied yesterday. Tomorrow I must visit an old friend. But I suppose I might have seen my friend today and then returned home. I decided to stay up the extra day and see whether your invitation stood testing. My apologies.'  
  
I smiled soothingly and waved away the very thought. It was delightful to see her, on any pretext, I said. And in fact, this turned out to be the case. We talked for nearly two and a half hours, with Mrs Hudson popping in and out as a discreet chaperone from time to time, before Mrs Deynforth, now permitting me the honour of calling her 'Caroline', regretfully insisted that she must return to her guest house, the distance being considerable, and the supper bell unyielding. I could not offer her a share in our evening meal at this late hour, so I offered instead to walk her as far as the other end of the park, from which point she would be travelling on well-lit, heavily trodden streets, and not in danger from side alleys and lonely paths. To this she agreed, and it was with a feeling of slight disappointment that I finally left her at the park gates, returning to rooms where the likelihood was that I should be  obliged to spend much of the evening in silence, or else listening to Holmes grumbling about the case.  
  
I now carried her home address in my pocket, but was uncertain as to why – other than the obvious fact that she had given it to me.  
  
Holmes, however, was not in our rooms when I returned. Mrs Hudson heard me return and came up to see me.  
  
'You just missed Mr Holmes, Doctor. He was only here for a few minutes, and left a bare ten minutes ago.'  
  
'Where did he go?'  
  
'He never tells me anything, you know. He left you a note on the mantlepiece.'  
  
I went over and found the folded bit of paper.  
  
Watson,  
If you still wish to assist, you will find me under the bridge where we waited for Grantley three days ago. Bring your revolver.  
SH  
  
I hurried to my room, relief fighting uncertainty in my chest. I had no thought but to join him. With my gun in my pocket, I left the house and walked quickly along the dim streets until I spotted a cab and ordered it to take me to Holmes.  
  
The winter night was cold and moonless, leaving the darkness under the bridge complete, so that I did not see Holmes until his hand fell on my arm. I jumped, with a loud exclamation, heard his frantic 'shush!' and found myself pulled back, even deeper into the shadows.  
  
'Who are we waiting for?' I whispered.  
  
'Grantley again,' he replied in a growl.  
  
'But I thought...'  
  
'He is our man, Watson, I am certain of it. He will come tonight, there is no moon. I think last time it was too bright. He is a creature of shadows when he is not being the life of the party.'  
  
His hands were on my shoulders and I eased back comfortably into their grip, despite the circumstances. He gave a gentle squeeze, which reassured me somewhat. Nothing happened for a while, and he finally whispered low,  
  
'You enjoyed your afternoon?' I was surprised, I had not expected him to show the slightest interest.  
  
'Yes, thank-you. We had a very pleasant conversation.'  
  
'You are seeing her again.'  
  
'I have planned nothing.'  
  
'But she has given you her address, and although you continue to tell yourself that you will do nothing about it, your mind is engaged upon working out a possible excuse for accidentally finding yourself in that locale.'  
  
'Holmes, that is utter tommyrot. I have no such plans.' I paused, I could not lie to him. 'I do have her address. I have no immediate intention of using it.'  
  
'Hmm.' He squeezed my shoulders again, and I was astonished to feel his breath on the back of my neck, and then the cold press of his lips as he stooped to place a kiss there. Such demonstrations were unusual for him on a normal day. To have him do it in the midst of this case, while we were on watch, and in a public area – albeit a very inconspicuous one – was disconcerting, to say the least. He stood straight again, took a deep breath and muttered,  
  
'Please have your gun at the ready, my dear fellow. It may be soon.'  
  
'Do you want me to shoot him, Holmes?' I asked, feeling it would be as well to establish this now, rather than in the midst of a dark and frenzied chase.  
  
'If necessary. That is, if he attempts to outrun us. But I would be obliged if you would aim for a leg, we need him very much alive.'  
  
'Will he be armed?' I whispered back as I pulled my gun from my inner pocket.  
  
'Mm...' He sounded uncertain. 'It is possible. I have not yet established the extent of his desperation. That he possesses or, at least, could easily acquire a weapon, I have no doubt. You have been enjoying softer company today. Do not let it make you careless.' He squeezed my shoulder again, and then we waited.  
  
Hours passed, and we hardly moved. My shoulder was aching, even with the comforting weight of Holmes' hand, which never left me once. Suddenly there was a movement in the dark beyond the bridge. Holmes released me at once and sprang forward, flying into the night, so that my gun was worse than useless. I cursed as I heard him cry out. I could not fire, I could not see more than two faint shadows. I could hit anyone, or no-one. As for hitting the man helpfully in the leg... I raced after him, stuffing the revolver back into my pocket. Holmes was rolling on the floor with a man I sincerely hoped was Grantley – otherwise there would be a lot of explaining to do. Then Holmes shouted in triumph and called,  
  
'Light, Watson! Let us have a light!'  
  
I fumbled in my pocket for a match, struck it and held it up. Its brief light illuminated Holmes sitting astride a man who turned his face to me with snarl, revealing himself as Grantley. Holmes had his arms locked behind him, and he was clearly unable to move.  
  
'In my pocket, Watson, Left side.'  
  
I dropped the spent match and went to Holmes by memory. I ran a hand down his coat until I found the pocket. In it, I found a set of handcuffs, no doubt "borrowed" without permission from Lestrade. I fixed them round the wrists of our captive, and Holmes grabbed the link and clambered off him, dragging him to his feet.  
  
'Let us find somewhere with a little more illumination, where we may get to know each other better,' Holmes said, with more life in his voice than I had heard for several weeks.  
  
He marched off down the street with Grantley ahead of him, rounded a corner, and stepped into the full glare of a lamp. I waited outside the ring of light and watched as Holmes twisted his arms to make any movement impossible, and reached inside Grantley's coat, bringing out a wad of papers, which he waved in my direction.  
  
'Check these, would you, Watson.'  
  
'I stepped into the light, took the papers, and looked through them. There were the missing deeds, the set of papers the police had said were burnt. There was the letter, too, that gave Grantley the leverage he had needed to set up his first subterfuge and established his motive for murder. I could not help but think that he had been far less enterprising in his use of the material than our enemy of a few months before, the odious Milverton.  
  
'They're all here, Holmes,' I said, and he sighed.  
  
'Good. Well then, let us deliver our friend here to the Yard, and let them consider their error in not taking Mr Grantley in when I gave them their first chance.'  
  
It took us twenty minutes to deliver Grantley to Scotland Yard. I hoped we might meet a constable on his beat along the way, but the streets were empty, and Holmes did not have his police whistle with him. Once there, it was necessary to persuade the duty officer to rouse Lestrade and bring him in to deal with the criminal himself, but once he had arrived, a somewhat drowsy admission of the police error followed – really the papers made it impossible for him to argue. His thanks were subdued, but I suspected he would be more effusive once he had awoken fully. Lestrade knows where his duty lies. After an hour or so, he let us go, and his gratitude was evidenced in the fact that he assigned us a police carriage to deliver us back to our lodgings.  
  
We were barely inside our private door before Holmes turned and wrapped his arms around me. I was surprised – such a spontaneous show of affection was unexpected. He kissed my hair, then let me go.  
  
'You are the very best of men, Watson. After all I have put you through these last weeks, to still join me at the end of what must otherwise have been a perfectly delightful day for you.'  
  
Danger warnings rang in my head.  
  
'Holmes, nothing could make for a better day than spending the end of it with you. Truly, my dear man, do you still not understand that?'  
  
He looked at me, and the sense of my words must have sunk in, because he gave a hastily suppressed smile and nodded.  
  
'Very well.' I did not like his tone, it was too knowing, he still sounded as if everything I said regarding my attachment to him was a cover, a fiction, invented to deceive myself more than him.  
  
I took off my coat and laid it over the chair, placing my hat on top of it, neatly. Holmes threw his carelessly across the other and his hat, landing half on the table, half on the chair-back, remained there. He went over to the fireplace, reached out vaguely, then turned to me,  
  
'Do you mind sitting up for a while? Lestrade's cheap cigarettes are no substitute for an evening with one's pipe.'  
  
'Not at all!' I had been having similar thoughts, and I settled into my chair, and lit my pipe, watching as he did the same and the smoke rose up in thin tendrils to mingle in the air above us. Contentment flooded though me. Opposite me, Holmes' eyes fixed on mine, and there was such affection in them, so very different from the cold blankness I had faced over the last few weeks.  
  
He finished his pipe before me, and sat there, chewing on the stem as it cooled. The moment my own pipe ran out, I set it down and rose to go to him before he could get up. I leaned my hands on the arms of his chair and bent to kiss his forehead. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them slowly, smiling a little, and I stood, holding out a hand to help him up. He ignored it, as is his habit, and rose by himself, but then took my proffered hand and followed me up to my room without a word.  
  
I was not sure why I took him up there. His room was more convenient, and we usually ended up there if we were intent on sharing a bed. However, he had sat in my room so often, watching me and not touching, that I felt the need to redress the balance in that room, to give myself some better memories of it and remove the uneasiness that went with the knowledge that this must be the pattern of our lives as long as Holmes continued in his work. To bring him up here now was to give myself the reminder, every time, that his reticence would not last forever, and he would return to me again, in the end.  
  
I pushed my hands up under his shirt and vest and smoothed the warm skin. He tipped his head back and sighed with a guttural rasp that twanged at my arousal and sent my pulse racing. It made me daring.  
  
'Do you miss this, when you are focused on a case, or is it simply not in your mind at all?'  
  
He looked down at me, confusion in his eyes. I wished I could run a hand through his hair, but it was dressed and unassailable.  
  
'I...The case is everything. You...'  
  
'I do exist, during a case. You think of me. You acknowledge I am there. Can you really separate me so fully from this?' I tightened my grip on him to illustrate my meaning.  
  
'I wish I could say that this,' he ran a firm hand across the line where my thighs curved up into buttocks, 'was not in my mind during the case, but you would know it was a lie. You know me too well. At one time, I might truthfully have said it did not enter my head, but you have infected me.'  
  
'And yet you think I could leave you?'  
  
'I know it. But don't think of it just now. Now you are here, and I am happy to take advantage of the fact.'  
  
I did not like to point out that I was the one who deserved to take advantage of his finally being available once more. Instead, I sank to my knees, desperate to touch him more intimately, at that instant.  
  
I opened the fastenings on his trousers, slipped my hand inside, and brought him, semi-erect, out into the cool air. I ran my nose up the side of his shaft, pressing kisses in its wake, supporting it in my hand until it hardened enough to stand off on its own. I was about to take him into my mouth when he rested a hand on my shoulder, making me pause,  
  
'No, no, no,' he muttered, 'Up here, if you please.' I wondered why, but was not about to argue with him now, and braced myself against the ache in my leg that always comes when I must rise from a low crouch. He took my arms, and pulled me up, taking the weight off my leg and making the transition easy.  
  
'Thank-you,' I said, softly. He smiled, a look of pure pleasure, as if to save me from that one moment of discomfort had meant the world to him. Such consideration barely marks the rest of Holmes' life; that it is there for me is a source of eternal wonder.  
  
'It is your kisses I miss the most,' he said, the faintest tinge of red colouring his cheeks at the admission. 'The rest is delightful, but let me make up for what I have missed most.'  
  
For a moment I considered pointing out that it was his fault that he had missed it, and that although kissing him was a pleasure I, too, missed, I needed to give him more than that. But then, it wasn't his fault. Not really. Holmes is as much a slave to his own brain as any man is bound to his employer. He could no more address the needs of his physical body while his mind was involved in a complicated case than he could resist those needs in the leaner times.  
  
He pressed his lips to mine. They were still cool from the night air, and his breaths whistled in his nostrils where they had not reopened themselves fully after the chill. I took his top lip between mine, tugging gently. His arms tightened around me, his eyes closed, and he breathed deeply. I felt suddenly overwhelmed, and clutched at him. The thought fluttered in the back of my mind that ever since we had found each other as lovers, it had been thus – holding each other too tightly, making embraces into battles, gripping until our ribs ached and joints cracked and shifted under the pressure, neither of us letting go, wild and uncontrolled in our fervour. It was as if we feared to let go, as if this might be the last time, every time.  
  
When we finally released each other, he stared at me for a long moment.  
  
'Already you move away from me,' he murmured. I frowned at him, not having a clue what he meant. Physically I had not moved a muscle – he had been the one to break the embrace, if it had been anything other than mutual. In spirit, I was as close to him as ever I had been. I laid a hand on his shoulder, holding his gaze.  
  
'What? Holmes?' I asked, searching his shifting eyes.  
  
He shook his head and squirmed out of my hand. I tried desperately to deduce him, to use the little I had acquired of his methods to discover his meaning. You see, but you don't observe... He had once accused me thus. Well now I was trying to observe, to look past his calm façade and deduce the workings of his mind. No matter how I tried, however, no matter how I stared and considered, holding his arm to prevent him from getting away, I could not fathom it.  
  
I assumed he was referring to Caroline. That seemed to be the focus of his mind at the moment. Was his suggestion that I was transferring my affection onto her? In which case, what signals had I given that this might be so? Damn it all, what hint had I somehow given him that this terrible, terrible falsehood should ring more true for him than the fact of my arousal, now deflating in my distress, or my fervent return of his embrace? There must have been something, for why would he invent it? I gave up on my attempt, and set to work on his buttons instead, reasoning that the surest way to prove my fidelity was to demonstrate it in the most physical way I knew.  
  
I had him naked in a matter of seconds, he was not hindering me, simply not helping any more. I let go of him, and he watched me with one eyebrow raised as I removed my own clothes. He sighed as I pressed myself tightly against him, feeling us both growing hard as I swayed softly against him. I slipped my arms around him and he sighed again, now in undisguised arousal. His breathing had grown less regular, and I let one hand drop to stroke from his waist to his thigh and back again, while my other hand held the back of his neck, ruffling the hairs at his nape.  
  
'How can you imagine that I would wish to tie myself to a woman when I have this to look forward to with you?' I asked.  
  
'I know,' he replied, inexplicably. Then he seemed to regain all his interest, his arms were suddenly alive around my waist and he used his weight to tumble me onto the bed, landing on top of me and leaning in to kiss me as he brought a knee up to give himself a way to rub against me. Our groins clashed, dangerous with heat and moisture, and Holmes, taking all the responsibility upon himself, rocked and pushed against me, until I was so close to climax that I found myself whining into his neck. He reached between us then, closing his strong, nimble fingers around us both together, and finishing me a matter of seconds before himself.  
  
I lay crushed under his weight, feeling more content than I had these many weeks, yet still with a sense of unease at Holmes' deduction. I stroked his back and wondered whether it would be fatal even to consider the credibility of his words. It was too late, of course, they were already in my mind, festering and infecting me with uncertainties and confusion. It was all a lie, a misunderstanding at best. Yet... What did I want for the rest of my life? Nothing. Nothing more than Holmes, either in my bed or out of it. His company was what I craved, whether the activities in which he joined me were carnal or mundane. Yet, I had said that marriage was not out of the question, and that suggested that my mind wanted something else, wanted to crawl back into the safe, acceptable role of the true, legal, vowed-before-God husband. It was not what I knew my heart wanted, but my rational mind was eager to remove me from the day-to-day uncertainties of life with Holmes, and the danger of discovery, the spectre of which would always hide in the corners of our clandestine couplings.  
  
The thought tore at my mind, and my eyes prickled with tears. Rage at Holmes for putting the suggestion in my mind, confusion at the wretched disparity between what I knew I needed, and what some sly and loveless part of me wanted.  
  
I raked my fingernails down his back and he grunted in pain. I breathed hard, trying to control myself, unable to believe that I could show such terrible weakness to Holmes, even as I knew that he had seen me far weaker, and I had welcomed his comfort on those occasions.  
  
'Do not distress yourself, Watson. What will be will...' I did not let him finish.  
  
'No, it will not. Holmes, I have no intention, do you hear me? No intention...'  He rolled off me, leaving one leg thrown over my thigh to anchor himself in the narrow bed, and took my hand in his. He squeezed it and left our fingers interlaced.  
  
  
'Watson, you are the very best of men, and I would not be the one to hold you back. You will be happy, married, no doubt.'  
  
My stomach went ice cold, and a rush of nausea hit me sit suddenly at the realisation that he truly meant it.  
  
'But Holmes, you and I...'  
  
'A fantasy of yours. It never happened.'  
  
'What? Why?'  
  
'Because you, my dear Watson, are designed to be entangled with the fair sex, and your staying with me simply through some ludicrous sense of duty will not do.'  
  
'You wish me to leave?' I was incredulous. The last time I had married, I had practically had to steal away from Baker Street in the dead of night, and every second of my married life had been haunted by the spectre of him, either in our minds, or in person, as he turned up at the most unlikely moments to whisk me away. 'Look at me and tell me truthfully that you would rather I married this lady than stayed with you.'  
  
'I am tired,' he said, with finality, as though this was an acceptable answer. Then he withdrew his hand and rolled over awkwardly, leaving me in a terrible position, naked, my side pressed top to toe along the warm flesh of the back of the lover I had waited for all my life; but now reeling with the uncertainty of whether or not I should even stay next to him. After a moment, I decided I simply could not.  
  
'I'm going to your room,' I said, as gently as I could. He made no reply, but as I left, I heard a deep inhalation, which cut off sharply, as if some spasm had caught him unawares.


	2. Decision

At breakfast, Holmes was quiet. Frankly, I was delighted he was there at all. I could not help feeling that I would have deserved his absence, or at least that I would not have been surprised by it, however much it hurt. When we had both finished, and I was perusing the morning paper, Holmes spoke, not looking at me, but regarding his nails in a noticeably intense manner.  
  
'My dear friend, would you be so good as to accompany me on a visit today? There is a shop where once I saw the most remarkable selection of sheet music for violin – many titles I have found nowhere else – and I should like to have your opinion of which you would rather hear.'  
  
I was surprised, usually he plays precisely what he wants, although on occasion he allows me to choose from his current repertoire.  
  
'It would be an honour. Certainly I'll come.' He glanced up at me and a smile of sorts flashed briefly across his lips. It looked a little sad, and as he looked back down, eyes upon the tablecloth, he seemed suddenly melancholy. I wanted to get up, to go to him, rest a hand on his shoulder and give him, at the least, surety of my support. However, I felt a barrier around him, an aura of objection which prevented me from doing any such thing.  
  
We left Baker Street around an hour later and took a cab to the station. It was not until we were waiting in line at the ticket office that I thought to ask Holmes where it was we were going.  
  
'To–' he cleared his throat, then coughed mightily. 'Do excuse me, Watson.'  
  
I waited; he said nothing more.  
  
'To...?' I encouraged him.  
  
'To Banbury, Watson,' he said, keeping his eyes firmly on the ticket window.   
  
If he had not been behaving so oddly, I might not have made anything of the place. As it was, I turned it over in my mind and realised that it sparked a memory in me. I fished in my pocket for my card case, and pulled out the card given to me by Caroline. There was her address, and the town jumped out at me. I took a deep breath and raised my eyes heavenwards, having no desire to quarrel with Holmes in the ticket queue. Therefore, I allowed him to buy the tickets, hand one to me and sit next to me on a cold station bench to await our train, the waiting room being uncomfortably full in this chilly weather. The platform was no better place to argue, so I waited once more and we boarded the train in tense silence.   
  
I was relieved to find that we had our compartment to ourselves when the train pulled away. Holmes had taken his seat opposite me, and to give him his due, he now looked me straight in the eye.  
  
'You are angry with me and my subterfuge,' he said the instant we moved.  
  
'I am. Yes. Holmes, you have no right to interfere with my private affairs in this way, and certainly not when it goes against my dearest wishes, and in particular when it appears you are attempting to drive us apart. Is that your wish?'  
  
'I wish you to be happy, Watson. Strange as that may seem, coming from me. You know there are very few people in this world whose opinions, whose feelings matter to me. You are the greatest of them, as you must be well aware. You have a great connection with this lady. I could see it the first time we met, and I was most horribly jealous.' He waved an explicatory hand at me, and pointed to accentuate his next words. 'But you should be married. No matter what we have enjoyed together, you are not made for life out of the company of women. Go and see her. Allow yourself to court her...' I scoffed and turned to look out of the window. In my head I could hear the conversation we had had during those first few days of revelation. I wanted to shout, to scream my frustration, for I saw clearly that I, however unthinkingly, had put the idea into his head:  
  
 _'...after all, one day I shall marry again, and there will be ample opportunity...'_  
 _'...Well of course you will, my dear fellow, and I am sure the lady will be very happy with you, and at the same time, sadly unaware of what a treasure she has bagged.'_  
  
He put a hand on my knee to bring my attention back to him. Part of me wanted to shake him off, to slap the hand away, to rail at his presumption after he had made so gravely erroneous a statement. However, another, larger part of me was desperate to take that same hand, to squeeze it in mine, to kiss his fingers and bring his hand to my neck, where his palm would curl around to cup my nape, and his fingers would slip into my hair and ruffle it slightly. In the carriage, I could lean across, pull down the blind, and kiss him. I wanted to, more than anything. A supreme effort of will held me back. Perhaps it was only my underlying anger that gave me the strength to resist.  
  
'Try, Watson. At least go to see her. I demand it.'  
  
'You demand...?' I shook my head in despair. The anger boiled and turned my mind black. Well then, I would go. To spite him, I would go, because his abuse of me and of our partnership was intolerable, callous and impossible to disregard. 

* * *

  
We arrived in Banbury and I strode out across the platform without  a single look back at him. With my return ticket safely in my pocket, I could return to London without him whenever I chose. For a brief moment I wondered whether the shop of which Holmes had spoken did indeed exist, or whether the whole affair had been an invention, then I pushed the thought aside. I was certainly not about to go looking for him now and spend time mulling of the virtues of a pile of sheet music with him.  
  
I checked Caroline's card once more as I turned into the high street, and stepped into the post office where I enquired after the named avenue. Furnished with some, thankfully simple, directions, I proceeded to the street in question and quickly located the house.   
  
I paused outside. It seemed a little rude to call without any sort of warning, but then she had done just that to me during her visit to London. Had Holmes and I not been out upon the case, we should have received her without prior notice.  
  
I rang the doorbell and waited. The sun shone on my back, warming me and improving my mood a little. The door was opened by a tiny old lady, her head covered by an old-fashioned cap. I removed my hat and presented my card, explaining my unexpected arrival as politely as I could.  
  
I was ushered into a small drawing room and waited only a minute before the door opened and Caroline stepped in, smiling graciously. I rose to meet her and apologised for my sudden appearance.  
  
'It is a pleasure, I am sure. Do sit down. Will you take tea?'  
  
'Thank-you, I am a little parched after the train journey,' I admitted. She sent for the tea and sat next to me.  
  
'What is it, then, that brings you so suddenly to Banbury?' she asked, appearing politely curious, though I thought I detected a little of a stronger emotion beneath her social mask.  
  
'It was a fancy of Holmes' to come here today. There was a shop he desired to visit and he asked me to accompany him.' I decided I might as well take advantage of his lie, since it came ready-formed. 'But now I find there is little to interest me in his project, so remembering that you lived in the town, I thought I might repay your visit.'  
  
'I'm very glad he had no further use for you,' she said smiling. It was clear that she had no idea, and indeed, how could she? how much those words hurt me. I was thankful that our tea arrived at that moment and allowed me a moment's respite while it was poured out.   
  
After that we talked of other things. Her music pupils, my medical practice, a little careful skirting around our respective pasts, the odd items not covered in her previous visit. I found myself enjoying her company more and more. Her questions were intelligent, her answers lively and interesting. Her amusement when together we made a small joke was delightful and infectious. As I watched her, I became aware that she had edged closer, that her hand brushed mine from time to time, that her eyes were locked on mine...and mine on hers. As I departed, in time to catch the four o'clock train, I asked if I might come again. Her response in the affirmative was immediate, and she held her hand out to be kissed. I did so, feeling a warmth that had left me in the morning returning in some small measure as my lips touched her soft skin.  
  


* * *

  
I did not see Holmes on the train, and assumed he was taking a different one, but when I stepped down onto the platform in London, he was by my side in an instant.   
  
'You returned by this train?' I asked, my voice carefully calm.  
  
'Yes. I thought you might not like it if I were to force my company upon you all the way home, so I took another compartment. I know I tried your patience sorely this morning.'  
  
'You did.' I started off out of the station and turned towards home, leaving him to follow me if he wished.   
  
'Forgive me, Watson. What I have done, I have done for you.'   
  
I stopped and whirled round on him.  
  
'No, Holmes! Nothing you have done today has been for me. It has all been for some plan of your own. As it happens, I had a perfectly delightful day, but it was no thanks to you.'  
  
'I am glad it was so delightful...' he murmured. I closed my eyes and took a steadying breath. I could not fully hold onto my anger with Holmes when he was standing next to me, I loved him too dearly for that, but I could not forgive him. Not yet.   
  
Let's go home,' I said after a moment. 'I have no desire to discuss this any more, and certainly not here.'  
  
As I turned to continue on my way, I felt him slip his hand through the crook of my elbow, walking beside me as he had done for years. It occurred to me for a second to shake him off, but in the end I could not bring myself to do it, and I walked along with him as if there were no problems springing up between us to drive us apart.

* * *

  
I went to visit Caroline again at the end of the week. Then once more the following week. On the Monday after that, I took her to dinner at a small restaurant and it became very clear that we were now past the point where one might consider us to be simply friends.  
  
As we ate our main courses and chatted of this and that, I struggled to think. Did I love her enough to marry? I tried desperately to remember how loving Mary had felt. Was this the same? Was this love enough? But I had no idea because whatever I had felt for the women in my past, the only comparison I had left, the only marker I could find in my memory, was Holmes. Whatever this was, it did not match that. It was nothing like it. But then, I thought, maybe this was better. This was gentle, kind, sweet, lacking that tang of coal-dust masculinity. It was, in fact, a feminine thing. Not weak, but strong in its own, almost-hidden way.   
  
Yes, I thought. This was love. Holmes was right. What I had with him was dangerous, liable to destroy me, too much for me to live with. Yes, it was. With Caroline would come that soft and lovely companionship that is the perfect harmony of two beings together in the relationship condoned by God.  
  
In eight more pleasant meetings and six weeks' time, I had proposed and been accepted.   
  
The moment she said yes was an unusual one for me. One thing I could certainly recall about my courtship of Mary was the occasion of my successful proposal. I had been so nervous the night before that I had practised pulling the ring in its little velvet box from my pocket. I had knelt by my bed and rehearsed the words I would use over and over until I could say them without thinking. I had proposed, kneeling in front of her as she sat on a park bench in a secluded corner of St James' Park, beautiful in the dappled sunshine of a May morning under the trees. As she said 'yes', a pelican on the lake had flapped its great wings, sounding like faint applause in the quiet morning air, and my heart had leapt with joy and excitement. The prospect of finally taking her to wife had been overwhelming, and as I had risen, giving no attention to my bad leg as I did so, I had felt suddenly faint, and she had noticed, pulled me swiftly on to the bench next to her, and laughed sweetly as she cupped my face and waited for my vision to return to normal and fix on her. I had kissed her then, and laughed with her, and we had spent the day making the most ridiculous plans for a wedding we knew we would neither afford, nor wish for in reality.  
  
The moment Caroline said yes, I felt a certain relief, and a little happiness. The waiting and uncertainty was over. I had done it. I would be a married man once more, my time with Holmes was done with, and I could walk away with good reason, and without regret. I made up my mind that the lack of joy, of wild excitement, was due to this being a second marriage. How could this match the anticipation of a first marriage, when all is unknown and thrilling? I persuaded myself to accept the lie, and together we planned a simple wedding: a few of her friends; Holmes, of course as my best man, for even now I could not callously cut him out; along with Mrs Hudson; Caroline's landlady; and a medical colleague of mine who deserved consideration for his help with arrangements and for covering me for a number of appointments I was obliged to miss in the course of the preparations.   
  
It was to be a quiet affair, and the day before, I found myself sitting in our Baker Street living room, on the last morning of my tenancy there, helping Holmes to present some evidence from his current case to Lestrade. I said my piece regarding the cause of death, and listened contentedly as Holmes deftly wrapped the whole case up with a flourish. I stared uneasily at the carpet, knowing I should not have worked with him at all these last few weeks. I had put some of my practice work across onto my colleague in order to arrange matters for the wedding, yet I had spent the very few odd hours which I might easily have used for that purpose, in the company of Holmes, racing around the city. He had hurt me, and I should have stayed away, but I had not. I dug the toe of my boot under the edge of the hearthrug and listened as Holmes concluded his report and bade Lestrade farewell, citing some urgent appointment on the other side of town, and urging me to show the Inspector out myself.  
  
Lestrade regarded me from under the brim of his hat as he pulled on his gloves. He glanced over his shoulder to check that Holmes truly had left, then he looked back and took a sharp breath.  
  
'So, you are to be married, Doctor?'  
  
'I am. Tomorrow, as it happens.'  
  
'Why?'  
  
'I beg your pardon?'  
  
'Have you thought it through?'  
  
'Well really, Lestrade, I don't know what you are suggesting, but...'  
  
'You're a fool, man. It's not my place to say, but there is still time.'  
  
'How dare you?!' I was outraged. I had always had great admiration for Lestrade, but this was an intolerable imposition by a professional colleague.  
  
'I dare because I have held you and Mr Holmes in the highest esteem for a number of years now, and I believe that although I may not have Holmes' deductive powers, I am not so incompetent as to be unable to put the clear evidence before my eyes into some sort of order, and come up with some very obvious conclusions. You have taken this path in the past. It never has boded well, it does him no good, and now...I suspect it will do you no good either.'  
  
'I have been married before, Lestrade.'  
  
'I am well aware of it, and I repeat, it will do no-one any good. I apologise for speaking out of turn, but I would rather say it, than hold my tongue and regret it later.'  
  
I showed him briskly to the door, giving him a curt goodbye. As I shut it behind him, I remembered that I had agreed, as a sort of farewell gift, to be taken to dinner and the theatre by Holmes that night. The thought made my stomach bubble with what I told myself was anxiety, but I knew to be anticipation. In the meantime, there were last-minute preparations to be made. I had a suit to collect from the tailor; a number of tradesmen to pay, that the bills might not come in while I was on my honeymoon; and a dozen or so little trips to be made to check times, quantities, colours, and all the many things that seem to be unnecessary in everyday life, but which assume monumental importance upon the easiest of wedding days.  
  
Five minutes later, I was collecting my thoughts over a cup of tea, and planning my afternoon's itinerary, when the door opened to admit Holmes. He leaned upon the chair opposite me, staring at me with an expression of fierce determination.  
  
'I thought you had gone across town?' I asked, looking back down at my list.  
  
'I started on my way, but returned when it occurred you might like to join me one last time before the enforced dullness of your honeymoon?'  
  
'It will not be dull, Holmes,' I said calmly, without looking up at him. A touch of ascerbity coloured my next words, 'I shall be with my new wife.'  
  
'I know, I know... Yet even so short a time... Will you not come?'  
  
I finally looked up, and the disappointed expression on his face, which he sought to cover with indifference the moment I raised my eyes, melted my irritation. I shook my head kindly as I finished my tea and set down the cup.  
  
'Holmes, I am getting married tomorrow, I have a thousand things to do, and I was hoping to go to the theatre with you tonight, but in order to do that, I must run errands.'  
  
'Errands? Tut!' he muttered. 'Oh, very well. Run along.' He turned away and strode across to his experiments on the other table, his trip across town seemingly abandoned. 'You will dine with me at Marcini's before the theatre?'  
  
I stood. 'If you let me go now, yes.' In truth, I ached to dine with him. Our time together had been strictly limited recently by his work and my preparations and duties to my bride. I walked around behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder. As I did so, my mind flashed back to a time when I had laid a hand on his shoulder, and ended up naked with him in his bed. The thought knocked me back from him, making a chill of uncertainty run through me. He noticed my movement and looked shrewdly around at me. Then he rose and faced me, grasping me by the arms.  
  
'What, Watson? What?' His eyes were locked with mine, searching for something.  
  
'You are still happy to be my best man, tomorrow?' I asked.  
  
'Of course, but that's not it.' He leaned closer, to look more intensely, and I felt his breath gusting across my lips. My eyes began to close of their own accord, and I pulled away. I stepped back, horrified at myself. I had thought his dismissal of me had killed my desire for him, but that was folly. Of course it had not. I had simply covered love with anger and pretended that was all. But I had a duty to perform. I would marry this woman because it was what I had promised. It was what I wanted, I was certain... almost certain, and it was what Holmes had told me to do. He had asked me to do it. He did not want me any more... no. I knew that was a lie. I had seen the lie in his eyes, but I would never drag the admission of it out of him.  
  
That evening I dined with him and we sat in the theatre side by side, but I did not allow myself a moment's relaxation. I was too afraid of what a second's lapse of concentration might reveal at this late hour.  
  
The next morning, I married Caroline.  
  



	3. Man and Wife

My bride had changed her dress during the day, and was beautiful in a silk evening gown on our wedding night. Gems glittered at her throat and wrist: her mother's, she had told me, given to her on the occasion of her first marriage. She had asked my permission to wear heirlooms with such strong associations to her last husband, and naturally I had allowed it. The man was dead, and though I did not want his ghost to haunt our life together, nor did I wish to make him a forbidden subject – I could think of nothing more unfair. For my part, I had told her what I could of Mary, and, though she could not possibly have understood that it was in the same category, of Holmes. I felt I must do this, to try to retain some integrity – my stocks of which seemed sadly diminished.  
  
I took her hands, and slowly removed the fine gloves she still wore. I pressed her fingers to my lips, trying to banish from my mind the comparison of these dainty digits with the elegant, but so much more substantial fingers of my great friend.   
  
We walked to the bedroom and I held her close and kissed her, bringing her up onto tiptoes, and wishing that I was unaware that she was now in the self-same position I was obliged to assume when I kissed Holmes. I ran the backs of my fingers down her cheek, her neck, across her clavicles. She sighed and tilted her head, cat-like away from my touch. I kissed her again, softly, on the mouth, then lightly on her cheek, barely across her ear, a little more firmly on her neck. I felt her swallow, saw the flush rising from her chest, and pushed her gently back to look into her eyes. She closed them as our gazes met, and nodded calmly, putting her arms around my neck for a brief instant before she let go and turned her back on me, holding a few stray ringlets of hair away from the fastenings at the top of her dress.   
  
I undid the hooks, kissed her naked back on each vertebra as I unfastened my own shirt and left it open for her to remove. Then I turned her to face me, and she pushed her hands lightly under my shirt, letting it fall from my arms, before a gentle shrug allowed her own dress to slide down. I cursed the day such complicated undergarments had been created for women, but helped her remove them, thinking, or rather trying not to think, of the ease with which Holmes' underthings could be discarded.  
  
She let me press her down onto the bed, remove her slippers and stockings and run a hand fleetingly across her thighs. I turned away to take off my trousers, something in me did not want her to watch, or help. The feeling passed, and I came to her, lying myself down next to her on the counterpane and resting one hand on her belly, the tip of my thumb pressing into the soft, lower curve of her breast.   
  
She was indeed a lovely woman. Not lovely with the glow and freshness of youth, but charming in her contentment and still firm enough to be a pleasure to gaze upon. I rolled carefully on top of her, taking my weight on my elbows to either side of her. I had lain like this with Holmes on too many occasions to count, but then I had not supported my weight, but merely crushed him until he grunted that it was too much, and had rolled me off him, or turned us all the way about so that he could reciprocate.   
  
I shook my head. I would not think of Holmes when in bed with my wife! I simply would not.  
  
We kissed for a long time, and I did not let myself contrast her small, sweet mouth with his tobacco-sour, pressing, pulsing one; nor the light, fluttering touches of her hands on my back with his frantic grasping of my ribs: his fervid clutches that were only matched in their intensity by my own arms, wrapped firmly about him.  
  
I laughed softly as she blew a ticklish breath across my shoulder on purpose, and was thankful that at least we were both experienced. I did not think I could have behaved myself enough to take a virgo intacta to my bed in a gentlemanly fashion any more.  
  
Her experience was undoubted. Her smiles and teasing vanished as the heat began to rise in her, and she ran a hand down my belly, between us, sliding her nails into the curls of my pubic hair and letting them run up the side of my member. I was hard enough to take her. Maybe not so rapidly aroused as I had been on occasion in the last year or so, but nonetheless, quite anxious for further stimulation.   
  
Shifting my weight onto one arm, I followed her hand down, brushing across her fingers, and rubbing my palm across the soft curling hairs on the mound below her belly. She moved her hips, straining into my touch, and I slipped my fingers down between her thighs, letting a single finger trail between folds of flesh slippery with the proof of her readiness. I stroked her there, gently bringing her further into the abandonment of full arousal, supposing that even with her past experience, none of it could have been recent enough to make my way as easy as it might be in future.  
  
She moaned and the fingers of one hand dug into my shoulder. I positioned myself above her, and pressed in, letting my weight carry me down and into her.   
  
Her long breath of acceptance was truly sensual, a feminine sound of pure satisfaction. I gave her a moment to adjust, then moved, delighted as her hips began to move in time with mine, tugging on me enough to increase my pleasure.  
  
We moved slowly, I was unsure of the extent of her fragility – feared I might forget myself and begin to assault her with the force and vigour of the thrusting I had permitted myself with him.  
  
'Harder, my love, I shan't break,' she breathed. I smiled, glad to be directed by her, glad not to have a purely passive body beneath me, but a woman who knew what she wanted. There, at least, she could compete with Holmes.   
  
I shook myself, trying to stop this. The constant comparison was wearing, it was unfair, and it was most definitely unwise. But there was nothing I could do. You cannot simply forget someone with whom you have been so intimately involved. The physical differences I could allow myself – they were merely instructive and interesting; but I vowed I would not compare the emotions in which they each wrapped me. I would not compare what I felt for Holmes with what I felt for my wife. I would not do it.  
  
Her legs came up around me, pulling me into her more deeply. The warmth and the sensation made me groan, though it was not as intense as the tightness to which I had grown used, and I increased my pace, which only made her grip the tighter, her hands pressing firmly into the flesh of my back.   
  
I rose up over her, rubbing against her pubis with each stroke, remembering how Mary had always loved that. She gasped and arched into me, trying to increase the speed and the pressure of her own accord. I thought that maybe next time I would see if she might take charge. Not this time though. Not when she was already so close, the flush on her chest rising further, her hands running rampant over my skin, her belly sucking away from me, legs suddenly gripping me tightly as she spasmed around me, head thrown back on her long neck.   
  
I kissed that neck as she came down, her breathing irregular and desperate, making high little sounds in her throat. She tilted her head down, seeking my lips, and I gave them to her as I resumed my movements inside her, making her twitch in my arms. The tight, coiling pressure had brought me close myself, and I pulled out of her, rolling off to the side, and finishing into my own hand, all the time thinking that if I had done that in Holmes' bed, I would have found myself on the floor. My mind wandered to imagining how it would have been if we could have shared a double bed.  
  
I dragged my mind back to the present in shock, disgusted with myself. I had just climaxed with my wife, my WIFE. And now I was thinking of him. That hurt me.  
  
The problem was not that I was thinking of the wrong person, but that I was thinking at all. An orgasm with Holmes had always left me too weak to string thoughts together; too emotionally wound up to do anything but cling to him, desperately, so that he could not leave me, never leave me... and, oh, God help me, I had left him, and now there was nothing to be done.   
  
'John?' Caroline was bending over me, still prettily pink in her cheeks, but with an expression of deep concern on her face. She stroked my chest and I pulled myself together, gave her a genuine smile and caught her hand in mine. It fitted inside it perfectly.  
  
Her scent was sweet, floral, alien to the masculine world from which I had escaped.  
  
And where was he tonight? Alone in his bed? Or spending it sleeplessly in the front room of Baker Street, or drowsing in his chair, or playing the violin until the neighbours screamed and Mrs Hudson came to tell him off... All were intolerable to think of. Tomorrow we would leave for our honeymoon on the coast (I had been determined to steer well clear of moorland, with its many memories, and she had been pleased with the idea of the seaside,) and it would be just like the many times I had taken myself off without him. There would be no call to think of him. Just a week of newly-wed bliss with a woman who made me very nearly as happy as he did.  
  
I kissed the woman lying half on top of me, as lazily as she kissed me, and listened to her fall asleep on my shoulder, while I lay awake, wishing for oblivion and feeling more caddish than I had ever felt with some six-penny whore in the darkest days of army life.  
  
  



	4. The Return of the Hatstand

The day after our return from a very peaceful honeymoon, I walked through my front door after a trip to the tobacconist and the barber, and was met for the first time in this manner by my wife, a picture in light blue. I leant in to kiss her, and she clung to me for a second before pushing me back. I smiled, enjoying the sensation of the feminine form in my arms once more. She smoothed my moustache and spoke,  
  
'Mr Holmes has been here.'  
  
'He has?'  
  
'He left his wedding present for us.'  
  
'I thought he had already given...'  
  
'He said you'd understand.'   
  
I stepped into the front parlour as she pointed through the door. There, in the centre of the room, tied about the pole with a white satin bow, was a hatstand. I staggered back, all the levity gone. How did he dare? How could he remind me of all that... of everything we had done... While my bride, delightful in her new dress, stood there deserving of all my love and affection. How dare he try to divert my attention back to him in such a crude manner...?   
  
'It will look well in the hall,' she said. 'There's a card attached, but it's only marked for you, so I didn't read it.'  
  
'Reluctantly, I stepped up to the offending stand and pulled the card from the back of the bow. I slipped it from its envelope and read, carefully angling it away from my wife. I did not know whether Holmes would have the common sense to be guarded in whatever it was he wished to communicate.  
  
 _My Dear Watson,_  
 _I imagine you are fuming with anger at my presumption in presenting you with this object. Believe me, my motives are innocent._  
 _I wish you every happiness, but I know you enjoy the opportunity to nag at me from time to time, so I shall continue to turn up unannounced until you order me to desist. When I am not around, I thought this might be a reminder of the flatmate who has spent so many years infuriating you. Since you are a gentleman and will therefore forbear to shout at your wife, perhaps you may use it as a sounding post when you are next frustrated with the world and its vices._  
 _Please accept it with good humour and the friendship with which it was intended._  
 _Yours ever,_  
 _SH._  
  
I stood reading the note over and over. Between the lines was a different letter, invisible to all but myself. After all my years of experience with Holmes, I could read it almost as clearly as the written words:  
  
 _My Dear Watson,_  
 _I know this will have angered you, because I know you better than you know yourself. My motives are entirely selfish, but I know that you have already realised that, and I beg your forgiveness that I cannot help myself._  
 _Never mind what I said; I cannot bear you to go off and lead your own life without me, and I am certain that you do not wish that either, so, having pushed you into marriage with this woman, I will now do everything in my power to disrupt your wedded bliss by continually turning up to drag you away from hearth and home. I know that you will come, because you love me. Here are a couple of explanations you can give your wife as to my choice of gift.._  
 _Please understand that I know you still get hot under the collar when you think of me in a certain way. This hatstand is my way of showing that everything I have said since I told you to pursue this woman has been pure bluster and bravado. It is intended to remind you of this every time you hang your coat, and remember me hanging from it while you made love to me. When you tire of your wife, as you are certain to do, it will remind you that I am waiting._  
 _Please accept it, because I have no other way of telling you this. I could never say it face to face, my courage does not extend so far._  
 _Yours forever..._  
  
'Holmes...' I whispered, wishing that I could have him in front of me at that moment. However, had he appeared before me, the choice between kissing him and knocking him out would have been an impossible one. His intended letter, I knew I had summoned from my own head, which made it all the worse. The assertion that I would tire of my wife was untrue. I had been widowed by my first wife, and the other women I had never quite wedded... well, I was younger then. Now I was wiser, and surely had gone into this knowing that it was an eternal bond. No... No. In my heart of hearts, I realised that I had stood before that official and lied through my teeth. My mind had already started to conjure me images of the freedom I would attain should she die, or should she choose to leave me...   
  
I collapsed into the chair next to me. Even to think that way was intolerable. I was a gentleman, I had always conducted myself as a gentleman. It was remarked upon by many of my friends and acquaintances. And gentlemen do not get married only to start thinking of ways to extricate themselves before the ink is dry in the register.  
  
My wife was by my side at once. She knew, at that moment, that something was amiss.  
  
'John? John, what is it? What does it mean?'  
  
'It has no meaning,' I said, rubbing my eyes and trying to find within me a brave face to show her.  
  
'May I read the note? Or is it private?'  
  
'No, you may read it,' I said, for there was nothing in the note that would give me away. She read for a moment, then frowned at me.   
  
'Why should you be angry? What on Earth...?'  
  
'Can you allow me that as a secret?' I asked her, rising and taking her in my arms. She watched me shrewdly for a moment, then nodded, and leaned in to peck me on the lips. I pushed towards her deepening the kiss – I felt I owed her that, owed her some recompense for my complete mental unfaithfulness. Why had I not listened to Lestrade? Why had I not stood up to Holmes and admitted to him and to myself that marriage had always been my aim, but that now things were different, and going into a relationship with a woman, when my whole body and soul cried out for Holmes, was sheer folly, and unkind to the lady if nothing else.  
  
However, it was now far, far too late for such self-remonstrations, for such awareness. Here I was, tied in wedlock (the word had never seemed so appropriate,) and I was going to ensure that it was all I wanted. I would not consider the other possibilities any more.  
  
I sustained this frame of mind, admirable as it was, for an entire fortnight.  
  
At the end of the two weeks, I had reserved a morning to slip out and arrange some uncomplicated matters at the bank and buy myself a new hat, my old grey bowler having met its end under the wheels of a hansom following its removal by a gust of wind. I opened the door, my second best hat halfway to my head, and was arrested mid-step by Holmes, his cane raised to knock at the door. My mouth went inexplicably dry and a wave of nausea rushed through me. The urge to prevent myself falling into the doorframe by falling into his arms was overwhelming. I took a step back.  
  
'Holmes!' I cried. He stared at me, blinked slowly, looking me up and down, no doubt seeing exactly what I was trying so hard to hide. Then he was back to business, his eyes lively and encouraging.  
  
'Watson!' he said with relish. 'Will you come with me today? I would value your assistance.'  
  
 _Yes, of course I'll come._  
  
'But Holmes, I was just running an errand. Can it wait for half an hour?'  
  
'Not if we are to be in time. Will you come?'  
  
 _Yes, I will. This instant._  
  
'I must tell Caroline. When are we likely to return?'  
  
'We must go to Slough. Perhaps late this evening. Nine or ten o'clock.'  
  
 _Only ten? Make it eleven. Make it tomorrow._  
  
'Very well. One moment.'  
  
I turned and went back to the morning room where Caroline sat in the window, releasing dried flowers from her little press, pulling the dead blooms from the papers that had crushed them, and dropping them with care into a tissue-lined box, ready for some decorative use or other.  
  
'Holmes is here,' I said, watching her fingers working loose a gossamer-thin daisy. 'He asks me to accompany him on a case he has. Do you object to me going with him? He expects us to be back around ten this evening.'  
  
'Not at all,' she said, looking up and smiling at me. She moved the box aside and stood up, smoothing down the front of her skirts. She walked past me, heading for the front door, and had her hand extended to Holmes as she reached the threshold.   
  
'Mr Holmes, what a pleasure to see you.' Holmes tugged on his glove to remove it, took her hand and kissed it. I felt my eyebrow raise – Holmes will defer only to women for whom he has some respect, and even then, it is not a given.   
  
'Watson has not yet bored you so much with his fictitious accounts of my exploits then that you cannot bear to expose yourself to the truth.'  
  
'John never refers to you but in the most glowing terms,' my wife replied. This was not strictly true – I had explained to her a little of his inconsistency of mood, more to warn her for the future than to grumble for the sake of it.  
  
'I do not doubt it,' he said, raising knowing eyes to me and letting the smallest twitch of his lips give me a different meaning than the one he was expressing to her. I felt myself going red. Caroline stepped back to let me pass.  
  
'I hope John will be of great assistance to you today. Come home safely, my love,' she added to me, reaching up to kiss me on the cheek.   
  
I let my hands linger on her waist for a moment or two, looked into her eyes, saw how lovely she looked, smiling and contented. I nodded to her and let her go. I turned and went down the steps with Holmes, hearing the door close behind us.  
  
We went to Slough and met a man whose character Holmes asked me to evaluate to compare it with his own ideas. I saw the medical issue behind his strange movements and suspicious glances, which Holmes had been unable to fathom. We finished with him at five, and Holmes suggested that we repair to an inn for a drink and some supper. He did not seem at all surprised that we had finished the main business of our day at such an early hour. Had we caught the train now, I could have been sitting at home with my wife before seven or half past.   
  
'You would rather go straight back?' he asked, eyeing me sideways as we walked out towards the station and the nearby inn.  
  
'No,' I said, not daring to say more. I thought of my wife. I thought of her sitting...by the...window? Or... I could not concentrate on the vision and it flew from me.   
  
We stopped at the inn and I forced myself to take only a small ale before and one with my meal, not allow myself to indulge and risk a loosening of my hold on propriety. I refused a glass of anything to follow, and smoked a cigarette instead, watching as Holmes did the same, leaning up against the corner of the panelling abutting his bench seat.  
  
The cigarettes burned down and were stubbed out, and we sat in silence for a while, the easy conversation we had enjoyed during our meal had dried up and left us unable to return to it. After a while, he sat up straight.  
  
'Watson, there is a last train at eight-thirty. We have an hour to kill. Shall we go for a walk? The weather is mild enough. I should rather enjoy a stroll in the countryside before we return to town.'   
  
I had no desire to sit in silence with him for an hour, it was too dangerous to let my mind wander when I was in the same room as him. So I agreed, and we gathered our coats, hats and canes and strode out into the dusk, taking the road that led away from the railway line and out between fields and farmsteads.  
  
Our elbows bumped as we walked, and I unthinkingly jutted out my elbow. Holmes slipped his arm through mine and I felt something hot and painful building in my chest as we strolled together.  
  
Every step we took rubbed his coat against my side, releasing his scent to waft around us, filling my nostrils and drugging my brain, until I could think of nothing but him, until the ball of anguish in my chest was a seething mass that crawled into the recesses of my lungs, up my throat, and into the empty cavity of my skull.  
  
I staggered against him, my vision blackening. He stood me against a gate, of necessity, as I was ready to fall over. I could barely breathe. Those breaths I could take were gasping and harsh, groans escaping me without my volition. I wanted to tell him, but I hiccuped on the words, swallowed them, could barely get them out.  
  
'I...' I took a deep breath, 'Holmes, why...' A sob escaped me, I hoped it did not sound like a sob, but knew it did. 'Why did you...tell me...to...do this...? To marry...' My whole body was shaking, He held my shoulders to steady me, but said and did nothing else. 'You told me...' I swallowed hard, and felt as if I had just run a hundred miles. '...to do it.' I meant it as an accusation, but it came out as an excuse.  
  
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and shook his head. 'This is what you wanted, my dear friend. You are the very best of men. You would not have asked the lady if you had not wanted to.'  
  
I could see he almost believed it, but it was not the truth. I raised my arms to grip his biceps; we were locked together now, like a pair of wrestlers. The lump rose in my throat, and my head shook from side to side, trying to keep control. I stared into his eyes and roared brokenly at him, every word cut with tears of frustration.  
  
'I...would...never have...jumped...' I gripped him tighter, 'If...you had not...pushed me...'  
  
'That is not true, my dear man. Control yourself. Calm down, you will cause yourself some injury. Come, come, Watson. Think what you are saying man! You have married a charming woman, whose company pleases you. You are living the life you should be. It is simply that you are in my company and memory is playing a terrible game with you.'  
  
He held me still, and I considered his words as far as I could. He was right. This was what I had wanted. What I was feeling now was pure selfishness, it was wanting everything for myself: the stability of marriage, the gentle love of a woman; and yet, at the same time, wanting the hedonistic physicality, the loss of self-control, which I enjoyed with Holmes. Slowly, my breathing returned to normal, and although I could still feel the ache in my throat and chest, it was no longer threatening to burst out of me. I nodded and took my own weight at last.  
  
'It is twenty past eight. We will not make the station in time.'  
  
 _Only ten? Make it eleven. Make it tomorrow._  
  
The inn was full. It was too late to walk back into the town and find other lodgings. The innkeeper took pity on us, offering a private sitting room in which we could at least sit out the night in soft chairs before the first train at six. Before turning in, I arranged for a telegram to be sent to Caroline, explaining, with a little less than the full truth, my delay.  
  
When I entered the sitting room, Holmes had sat himself down at one end of a comfortable-looking sofa, padded with cushions and more inviting than the hard, leather chair by the ill-fitting window, or the wooden carvers by the fire. His arm stretched along the back, open and encouraging, and although I knew I should sit at the far end, lean against the corner and stay away from Holmes, his warmth, and the danger he represented, I did not. Instead, I took my seat so close to him that the rising and falling of his chest as he breathed moved the fabric of my jacket.   
  
'It's an ill wind, Watson,' he said softly, and dropped his arm onto my shoulders. I looked around at him, intending to ask him to stop, though hoping he would not. He held my gaze, a pleading quality in his eyes quelling my protests, as a wave of tiredness swept over me. I shook my head, laid it back against his arm, and fell asleep.


	5. Knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the dreadful lateness of this chapter. Real life can be such a pest sometimes... Next two chapters are practicaly done though, so I hope to redeem myself this month :)

  
  
Holmes sat and picked at his dinner, wiping his fingertips on his napkin quite fastidiously every couple of mouthfuls. I couldn't help feeling that he was terribly ill at ease, and I scratched around for a way to settle him, desperate for that easy companionship we used to enjoy. Then Caroline spoke, and a calm descended. Holmes listened to her, and as he listened, he ate, his hand travelling automatically back and forth to deliver food to his mouth.  
  
'Sherlock, John has told me so much about what you have done for him. Your remarkable abilities I already recognised, of course, but your consideration towards John, whether or not you intended it, is quite wonderful.'  
  
Holmes' eyebrow rose, and he looked straight at me. I glared back at him, mortification at his having been told this making my face burn. I wanted quite desperately to explain that all I had said was that Holmes had helped me to find my place in the world again after the army, had given me a new meaning, a new purpose. Not, I wanted to add, not, and absolutely not, that I had told her anything about what else he had done for me. Not about our comparatively recent discoveries about each other. Not even about the closeness of the friendship we had enjoyed before, which had perhaps masked what we truly felt.  
  
'I hope, Sherlock, that you will always feel able to come here whenever you like. And I also hope that I will never be so jealous of John's time as to stop him going with you whenever you truly need him.  
  
Not knowing him so well as I, I am sure she could not have interpreted the fleeting twitch that passed across his face. To me it said 'Thank-you, my dear lady, but I need him all the time.' I frowned at him – I wasn't convinced that was true. It was true of me, but not hi– Oh, no, that was not a thought I wanted in my head anywhere around my wife. I sent him a warning look, received an arrogant tilt of the head in return and, horrifyingly, felt the raw shudder of pure lust shaking me from head to toe. I looked purposefully back at my wife, taking in her feminine attractiveness, reminding myself of her charm and tenderness.  
  
'You have been so very good for John over the years, it is clear. I almost wish I had known you sooner.'  
  
'John is perfectly capable of looking after himself.' Something in his voice highly doubted that. I prayed fervently that Caroline would not leave the two of us alone together at any point this evening.  
  
When we had finished our main course, I excused myself for a moment, leaving Holmes and Caroline at the table. I suspected that it was unwise, but I did, in fact, need to relieve myself, and apart from that, I thought it might be as well to look in the glass, and check how innocent the expression I was currently wearing actually looked.  
  
I leant on the washstand and stared at myself. I was a little pink about the cheeks, but no more than a good meal might promote. As far as I was concerned, my eyes were full of confusion, but apart from that, nothing seemed to show. I returned to the table to find my glass filled and my companions finishing a conversation I could not quite extrapolate.  
  
'...You would be surprised, given how few of your deductive skills I possess...' My wife trailed off and smiled at me. I sat and took up my drink, carefully restraining myself from throwing the whole glass down my throat in one go.  
  
Our conversations thereafter managed to stay on safe topics, as far as I was concerned. The latest in a series of murders which, for a change, Holmes thought the police were dealing with in a competent manner; Holmes' latest case, which seemed to be keeping him just occupied enough to stop him descending into depression, without making him manic in its own right.  
  
Holmes left just before ten, shaking my hand and kissing that of my wife. I shut the door on his retreating back, and Caroline took my by the arm, walking us back to our chairs by the fire, and planting a kiss on my forehead as she sat me down.  
  
'He really is wonderful company, John.'  
  
'In certain moods, yes, you wouldn't enjoy him so much when he's feeling argumentative.' She tutted at me, and I gave her an affirming look.  
  
'I could not possibly ask him outright, of course, but you know he truly thinks the world of you.' I had no answer for that, not being certain of how much, or, indeed, _how_ she knew. So I pretended not to have heard.  
  
'You don't miss him too terribly, do you, John?'  
  
'Miss him? When I have such excellent company in my wife?'  
  
'One can enjoy the company of one person, yet still yearn for the company of another.'  
  
'Caroline, I assume you–'  
  
'Do not suppose I mind. I have the greatest affection for Sherlock, and I did not marry you in order to separate you.'  
  
'You talk as if Holmes and I were married.'  
  
She looked at me shrewdly, but gave no answer. Later, she took my hands, pulling me to my feet, and we went to bed together. She touched me in a way she had not done before. I left the lights up full, kept my wife where I could see her, and did not shut my eyes once. I concentrated hard on her face, and let myself enjoy her softness, register the love in her eyes, and try desperately to return it in full measure. But when I fell apart, I was in Holmes' arms, and the overriding emotion of the daydream was contentment.

* * *

  
'John?' It was breakfast, a Saturday morning, and I had nowhere important to be, other than at my wife's side. I looked up at her and smiled. Her own expression was benign.  
  
'I don't want you to leave me,' she said suddenly, making me choke on my egg. I used my napkin, then cleared my throat.  
  
'I have no intention of leaving you. Why do you say that?'  
  
'You may not intend to leave me, but you would like to.'  
  
'Caroline? I assure you–'  
  
'John, listen. We have been married for six months. I think I know you well enough to better interpret your moods, and to better articulate what I have always known. Still, I do not wish you to leave me. But if I continue to hold you so far removed from him, I suspect that is what will happen. I would rather share you with him.'  
  
'I don't understand,' I said, wishing it were true. My wife rose, depositing her napkin on the table. She took my face between her hands and kissed my forehead.  
  
'You are a terrible dissembler, Doctor Watson.' She smiled, but there was sadness in the smile. 'You are also miserable, and I hate to see you miserable.'  
  
'I'm not–' I began, but she stopped me.  
  
'No, John. No. I don't quite know what you had with Sherlock before you began courting me, and I don't mind. In a way I am flattered that I was able, however temporarily, to displace him in your thoughts. But, in the end, I am certain you were wrong to do it.'  
  
'How could it be wrong to marry such a wonderful woman?' I asked, listing a hundred reasons why it was wrong in my head.  
  
'Do you wish me to be so blunt?'  
  
'Yes.'  
  
'No matter what your feelings for me, it is abundantly clear that you love him more.' I tried to think of a way to prove her wrong, but I just couldn't. She was perfectly right, and the flimsy pretence I had constructed for myself crumbled. She was still holding my face gently, and that was the only thing that prevented me from bolting from the room.  
  
'Hmm, I'm sorry, I've scared you, my love. Don't worry yourself. If I'm truly honest, I think I knew long before I married you.'  
  
'Then why did you do it?' I asked, trying to keep my voice even.  
  
'Because I fell in love with you, the first time we met, when you were working on that case. And I'll admit that I fell a little in love with Mr Holmes at the same time.'  
  
'You can't have known,' I said, forgetting myself and my natural reserve on the matter. 'I was so careful. I didn't let–'  
  
'Not when you were on your own, no. Or, at least, the amount of time you spend talking about him could be explained away by the amount of time you spend together. But when you were with him, it was so clear, so very clear, and now... Now that you feel safer because you are married again and can afford to relax a little, it is unquestionable.'  
  
When we retired to bed that night, she lay by my side and slept with her hand resting on my chest. I recognised it as a gesture of support, forgiveness, whatever might be required, but my mind felt the pressure, just so, upon my chest, where he had once laid his hand to mean possession and inseparability.  
  


* * *

  
She did not mention it again, and I did my best to forget, but the knowledge that she was aware was a dangerous light of hope in the corner of my mind, making the unsuitable possible and the unthinkable a constant tumble of thought. I did my best to keep my mind on her, keep myself near to her as much as possible, but when the next invitation came, I found myself totally unable to resist.  
  
'Mrs Watson. I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but will you object terribly if I abandon you for the whole weekend?  
  
'And to which lucky soul am I losing you?' she asked, already knowing.  
  
'Holmes wants me to–'  
  
'Well then, you must certainly go.'  
  
'I wish you weren't quite so happy about it,' I said, a little petulantly.  
  
'John, you know perfectly how I feel about it.'  
  
'Yes, but you don't understand what you're saying.'  
  
'John, don't you dare suggest that I don't know what I'm sanctioning.' Her tone was firm, but not angry. I, on the other hand, could not prevent indignation rising in me, even though I knew it was a bad idea.  
  
'You have no idea–'  
  
'John, don't argue, not about this. If I want to argue with my husband, which I flatly refuse to do, this is not the subject I would choose.'  
  
'You–'  
  
'I know exactly what I'm allowing, Doctor Watson. Do you want me to spell it out?'  
  
'You're mistaken, I–'  
  
'Sit down, my love.' She went to her chair by the fire and sat down, taking my hand as she passed to guide me to my own seat. I sank into it, nervousness playing a jig with my legs as I took the weight off them.  
  
'I am allowing you, or at least, not complaining about you choosing, to go off for the weekend with Mr Holmes, whom you love with all your heart.' I held up my hand and opened my mouth to stop her, but she spoke straight over me.  
  
'I was not entirely certain of my facts the last time we spoke of this, but I can observe. That means is not the sole purview of Mr Holmes. I have been convinced, and you will not persuade me otherwise. You will enjoy your weekend together, even if he is in a foul mood, and if his temper is even moderately pleasant, you will end up kissing him, and quite probably sharing his bed, since opportunities are so scarce these days.'  
  
I simply sat there with my mouth gaping. I felt as if my insides would crawl out of me, straight through my skin. How could I answer that? In all honesty, there is no response possible when one's wife suddenly confronts one with the fact that she condones your arrangements with your dearest male friend.  
  
Caroline leant forward and took my hand, pulled herself up with it, knelt in front of me and kissed my open mouth. She rose and sat herself on my knee, daring me to object or make a fuss. Deep, deep affection coursed through me. I was clammy with cold sweat, but suddenly warmth replaced it, and I kissed her back, wrapping her in my arms, feeling like a complete scoundrel. Then I considered – this was her idea. If she was happy to make love to a man she knew well put her, however unsatisfactorily, in second place, then it was not my place to say her nay.  
  
Besides, by this time she had shuffled back up my lap, until the round firmness of her behind was pressed hard against my groin, and she was moving quite knowingly, so that whatever powers I might have possessed to allow me to put her off, claiming the impropriety of the thing, all leaked out through my shoes, and I pulled her to me more tightly. She fiddled with the clasp at her bosom, letting it fall open, exposing the curve of her breasts over the top of her corset. As I kissed her, she wriggled her skirts up over my legs and fiddled at my belt until she could get a delicate hand down the front of my trousers. I gave up – my mind no longer had much control over my actions – and let my fingers roam over her exposed skin, pushing myself into her hand. Somehow she managed to get the fastenings open and release me from the confines of my suit trousers. Her attentions had worked well enough and she squirmed in my lap, shuffling me to the front of the seat so that she could lower herself onto me. I groaned as she enveloped me and my head tipped back, out of the way of her teasing lips.  
  
'Why?' I managed to ask with the last of my clarity.  
  
'Because,' she panted, 'I don't care. It's my own fault, and I don't want you to feel that we can't do this simply because I know. I'm not going to endure a cold bed as well as a shared husband. I can cope perfectly well with the latter, not the former.' She laid her lips against mine again, and squeezed me with some internal muscle she had obviously spent time exercising.  
  
That was it. It was too much for me. I slipped a hand behind her head and tipped her back and down onto the hearthrug, wrestling my trousers down further and dropping onto her, feeling her legs coming up around my waist, swathing me in the fabric of her skirts. I plunged into her, again, again, until I let loose inside her, hating myself for not even making a small effort to ensure her pleasure in the act.  
  
I rested my chin in the valley between her constrained breasts and felt her chest heaving beneath me as she inhaled against my weight. She ran her fingers through my hair, gasping prettily. I rolled off her and lay next to her, the fire crackling a few feet away.  
  
I felt dreadful. A fiend of the worst order. What kind of man would do this? Her fingers laced themselves through mine.  
  
'My choice John. Yes?'  
  
I simply grunted in reply.  
  
'And you will go with Mr Holmes this weekend? Won't you?' she continued, fierce all of a sudden, and I knew I would. Besides, it what was I wanted most in all the world, even with her dainty fingers wrapped in mine and her moisture drying on my softening phallus.


	6. No Good Reason

On Friday night, Holmes met me at Paddington station, and my breath caught as I spotted him across the platform.  
  
To tell the truth, I had no idea where we were going, or why. In all my confusion, I had never thought to wonder. He greeted me with a hand on the arm, and eyes that sparkled with what, in another man, I would have called joy. It almost broke my heart.  
  
'Where are we going, Holmes?'  
  
'Oh, did I not tell you, Watson?' I shook my head. He shot a glance at me, his lip curled in a faint smile and he looked back at the departures board. 'We are heading to Dartmoor, to an old acquaintance's manor house. He is persuaded that he house is haunted. Of all things.' He scoffed. 'A lot of nonsense, of course, but–' He stopped and I regarded him questioningly. I would have sworn the colour in his cheeks increased.  
  
'I thought a weekend in the country would be–' He paused. '–enjoyable.'   
  
I felt the cold of shock trickle through me. He had pulled me out of London for a holiday, nothing more. Never mind solving a ridiculous case for an old acquaintance. This was Holmes, having pushed me into my wedding, doing his damndest to drag me back out of the marriage.  
  
Any sane man, having had this revelation on the platform of their home station, would have turned and gone straight home. Naturally, I did no such thing. A few minutes later, the Plymouth train was announced, Holmes raised his cane in a gesture of satisfaction, and together we walked down the platform to board.  
  
I pondered as we travelled, and had not finished pondering when we stepped off the train in Devon, upon one of our frequent visits to this particular stretch of moorland. From the time I had travelled here to assist as best I could in the Baskerville case, little knowing that Holmes was hot on my heels; to our picnic in the shadow of a granite excrescence, when he had first made love to me without restraint. Perhaps, I considered, that was why he was bringing me back here now, to a place with so many memories. Perhaps he simply loved the place and chose to bring me with him.   
  
Certainly, he was in the highest of spirits as we strode off along the platform, a portmanteau each in one hand, canes in the other.   
  
'Hah! Watson! Breathe that air!' he shouted as we stepped out into the lane. I rejoiced at that – sometimes Holmes appreciates the countryside, at other times he finds it intolerably dull and damp, and it sends him into a sulk for days. I preferred to bask in the former temper.  
  
'Where does the gentleman live?' I asked. Holmes gave no answer, but perched himself upon a low fence, which ran between the lane and a stream, until it gave way to hedgerow. I tapped my cane on the wood next to him.   
  
'Holmes! Where are we headed?' I asked, more forcefully. He tuned his head to look at me. His eyes were full of mischief, but they were kind, oh, very kind. I felt a growing urge to touch him, to embrace him and kiss him. To make it impossible, I hopped up onto the fence next to him and  repeated my query more softly:  
  
'Where are we staying while we are here?'  
  
He sighed.  
  
'The gentleman in question – a Mr Gilbert White – is sending the dog-cart for us. We are a little ahead of our time. No doubt it will be along shortly. It is not far; without our bags and the fatigue of travel, it could be walked from here. However, it is not my intention to arrive and instantly drop down with exhaustion – nor to have you do likewise.' The corner of his mouth turned up in a dangerous smile. I fixed him with a stern expression that barely hid the racing of my heart and the childish bounding of hope, disgust and apprehension that flared in equal measure in my breast.  
  
'Holmes, I am here. But I cannot... Whatever your reasoning...' It occurred to me that it was not all that long ago that the idea of me having to put _him_ off would have seemed ridiculous.  
  
'Of course not, my dear friend,' he said, sounding so genuinely understanding that I relaxed and nodded.   
  
The dog-cart arrived in a minute or two, and we clambered aboard with our cases. The driver introduced himself as the gardener, but past that, did not offer any information. Holmes had tucked himself into a corner, drawing his coat tightly about him, his scarf wound over his hat to keep it upon his head. I myself held the brim of my bowler with one hand, and tried very hard not to grasp his knee with the other.  
  
The moon was up by the time we arrived, and Mr White met us at the gate, walking stick in hand, caped and booted for the chill wind and muddy ground.  
  
'Mr Holmes! My deepest gratitude to you for coming all this way on my behalf.' Holmes nodded politely.   
  
'A pleasure, Mr White, a true pleasure. My friend Doctor Watson.'  
  
'I shook the man's hand and we followed him into the house, where our bags were taken by a servant and we were shown to a cosy drawing room with a roaring fire and a tray of supper items and tea.  
  
The house itself was large, but homely. The furnishings were old and comfortable, the rooms warm and welcoming, but the corridors did indeed exude a certain chilly unfriendliness which struck me at the first instant.  
  
'Mr Holmes, you have travelled a long way. I will not burden you or your companion with the particulars of my troubles today, as you stated you were in no particular hurry. Please, take some refreshment, then I will show you your rooms. The house is at your disposal – I have a quite extensive library you might enjoy.'   
  
We ate a good supper, being ravenous after the journey, then followed our host up a sizeable staircase to the upper floor, where a trip along a corridor into the east wing of the building brought us to a pair of communicating rooms.   
  
It was late, supper and the subsequent drinks having taken more time than we had supposed, and it was agreed that we should take to our rooms and see Mr White in the morning. I entered my room and shut the door, finding my case upon a dresser by the window. A moment later, there was a knock at the communicating door, and I opened it to Holmes, who stepped silently across the threshold and perched upon the corner of the bed.  
  
'I should not have brought you here, I know,' were the first words he said. He did not look at me, and his posture was tense.  
  
'Whyever not?' I asked, though in my heart I knew.   
  
'Watson, do not feign ignorance. If I could possibly claim the slightest good reason for bringing you here, I would, but there is none whatsoever. You are here because I desired your company. I desired you. That is no reason at all, in the circumstances.' He turned his head, finally, to look at me. His look was devouring. I could feel him drawing me in. I don't think his intent was entirely to lead me astray, but neither of us had ever, in truth, been very good at resisting each other. I had to put him off firmly, at once.  
  
'Holmes, I can't. I'd...' I suddenly realised that even admitting that I would like to... was a sin so great that it should not even have crossed my mind.  
  
'I know you cannot. Nor did I truly imagine you would. Yet I brought you here selfishly, taking you away from your wife.'  
  
'And I agreed to it. The blame must fall equally upon me.'  
  
There was a pause wherein it was perfectly obvious that we both knew Holmes should go directly back to his own room, and not remain here as a temptation to us both.  
  
I walked over to my case and began to unpack, removing my toilet bag, my nightshirt and finally a set of clothes which I hung to air. All the time, Holmes just sat on the bed, gazing into space. I finished my unpacking and sat on the chair in the corner. The room was silent as the grave. Through the stillness, I could hear the distant _tick-tock_ of the grandfather clock in the hall.  
  
The silence was so tense, it made my heart beat faster. My mind filled with a sudden flood of things I wanted to do to him. I wanted to get up, step across to him, take his face in my hands and press our lips together. Just for a second, I could do it. Just the barest touch of lips to demonstrate that I was removed from him by moral obligation, but not by choice. Only it was by choice – in reality, no-one had held a gun to my head while I married her.  
  
More than anything, I wanted to put my arms around him and feel him holding me in return. I would hold him tight and not let go, just as I had once in the past.  
  
He stood up and put his hands in his pockets, pacing the room until he passed so close to me that I could feel the heat radiating from him. He turned at the wall and returned, passing me again. I saw his hand twitch, recognised that he was going to reach out and touch me on the shoulder. I steeled myself not to react, but he paused, then walked swiftly away to the door.  
  
'Goodnight, my dear Watson,' he said, quite calmly, but once he was through, he slammed the door with unwonted ferocity.  
  
I changed and got into bed, trying to ignore how miserable I was feeling. I wondered what would happen if I were to open that door and step up to him and kiss him on the forehead, then leave again. I thought it might make me feel better. Then again, it might not. The idea was persuasive though, preventing me from closing my eyes, let alone sleeping.  
  
An hour later I was still awake. If he was asleep – and he had no current case involving enough to keep him up – I could go in and do that without him even knowing it. That would be solely affectionate, not unfaithful. I swung my legs out of bed and wormed my toes into my slippers. I crept to the door and listened. I could hear no sound of movement. I resolved just to open the door a  little way and look in. I crouched down to look through the keyhole. The room beyond was dark. I put one hand on the doorknob, pressed the other against the door to steady it, gently twisted the knob and pulled it open.  
  
I was confronted by the silhouette of Holmes, barely a foot from me, his hand out flat towards me, as if it had previously been resting against his side of the door.  
  
He looked at me for a second and raised his eyebrow, then held out his arms, beckoning with his open hands. It was only one step. I do not think I can be blamed, given the lateness of the hour, for taking that step. He closed his arms around me, and I felt the ball of fire in my chest rise to my throat.  
  
This was a terrible, terrible idea. I had no doubt that if he were to reach a hand down to my crotch, or pull my head towards him and kiss me, I would offer no resistance. But I had to stop this before that could happen. I gritted my teeth and pushed away from him. My hands gripped his upper arms, and before I let go, I leant in and kissed his cheek. I shut the door in his face, intending to return to the bed, but instead, I stood there, my hand resting upon the wood, unmoving for a long time in the darkness, my breathing in counterpoint to the faint _tick-tock_ from the hallway as the grandfather clock measured the night away for my benefit.

* * *

  
The next day was quiet for the most part, leaving me a great deal of time to alternately berate myself for my weakness, and guiltily exalt in my own daring. There came, however, a moment in the late afternoon when the sounds of approaching feet followed hard upon the occasion of our host ringing the bell to report ghostly activity. We had not stayed to listen to his tale, but had dashed out, taking a circuitous route to cut off any perpetrators in their escape. As we ran along the corridor, we realised that we were about to be seen.  
  
'Quick Watson! In here!' Holmes had thrown open the door next to him and without further warning, grasped me by the arm and all but threw me into what turned out to be a linen-cupboard. The lower portion of the cupboard was un-shelved, having a rail depending from a shelf roughly at my eye height, and nothing below save for a broom and a small pile of newspapers. Holmes having followed me in and tugged the door shut against our shoulders, we found ourselves in an extremely cramped position. Even I could not stand straight, Holmes was bent almost double. This made us both lean forward, towards each other, and it was more expedient to lean our foreheads against one another than to attempt to balance ourselves apart.  
  
His nose brushed against mine, making my breath hitch. His hand was upon my shoulder, stopping it from accidentally pushing open the door. I closed my eyes and did my best to think of the case, of the outside world, not of this perfect cubby-hole, thick with the presence of my friend.  
  
'Ghosts, ah, naturally,' Holmes muttered under his breath. 'A stableboy and a housemaid; bored and eager to hide the evidence of their clumsy assignations under the guise of a poltergeist.' He seemed perfectly contented by this simple explanation. I knew from experience that upon most occasions, such an unchallenging case, such an insult to his intellect, would drive him to loud displays of exaggerated boredom and real frustration. However, now, he seemed more gleeful at the case's simplicity.   
  
The footsteps passed the door: muffled laughter, two voices. Holmes opened the door by the barest of cracks. I could see the backs of two people, two lamps, two sheets of some gossamer-thin material, dragging behind the a small cart, running on silent wheels. It was clear: the means of disguise, the means to glide, the means to glow, the temperament to cause mischief. Hardly a case for Holmes.  
  
We watched them go, giggling down the hallway, and Holmes pushed the door open unbending himself and stretching to his full height. He beckoned me out. I could still feel his forehead burning against my own.

* * *

  
We should have left that evening. The case was solved, we had no reason to stay, but Mr White was keen for us to remain there for at least another night, and Holmes barely put up any protest. I could hardly refuse myself, the man was Holmes' acquaintance, not mine.  
  
So we stayed. We sat in his spacious study, passing the port and sampling his excellent cigars as the gramophone scratched out a symphony. Holmes allowed himself the luxury of relaxing, and his face was beatific in repose. He sat next to me on the day-bed opposite the fire, while our host occupied his desk chair.   
  
At around nine o'clock, Mr White left to answer the call of nature and Holmes drew his legs up onto the daybed, sitting legs akimbo. His thigh pressed against my arm, he was doing it on purpose, I knew he was, and I should have reprimanded him, but a few moments later, we could hear our host returning along the hall, and in the few seconds before he reached the door, I reached around his leg and took his hand for a moment. He squeezed it and then dropped his feet back to the floor. I tried to pretend that I wasn't raising my hand to my lips as I withdrew it, that the shiver spreading from my head to the bottom of my stomach was nothing to do with him.  
  
That night I was careful to stay in my bed and not allow myself even to wink at temptation. It was a relief to travel back to London the next day, and return to my wife, out of the reach of that monstrous desire.  
  



	7. Home and Hearth

It was a relief to travel back to London the next day, and return to my wife, out of the reach of that monstrous desire. However, having entered the house and found my wife sitting at table with the remains of a good luncheon, I found it very hard to face her. I sat down next to her, unable to greet her with a kiss, as I should. She laid a light hand on my shoulder, and caressed my neck for a second as she spoke.  
  
'John, you know I understand. He was a wonder to me when first we met. That you should be so deeply attached to him is no mystery to me.' Her abruptness stung me into speech,  
  
'But we did nothing while we were away together. My darling, I promise you, nothing at all. Or, since I must be honest with you, I will admit I was sorely tempted at one point. You are right that we have been close, and I am as open to temptation as the next man, but I kissed him upon the cheek as a friend might. That is all.'  
  
'You should have done more, if that is truly all you did.'  
  
'What?' I asked, confused at her imperative tone. 'Why? In heaven's name, why?'  
  
'Did you want to, in your heart?' She looked at me frankly, and I knew I would answer truthfully.  
  
'Yes. In truth, I did. But I could not. You are my wife, and no permission you may give me can be enough to make me betray you in that fashion. You don't know what you are asking of me.'  
  
'Did it hurt? To step away from him. John? Did it, in fact, break your heart?' She was not mocking me, her voice was low and comforting.  
  
'Those are strong words, Caroline...'  
  
'Did it? My love, did it?'  
  
'Yes.'  
  
 _Yes, it did. It was like losing him again. It was as if I were cutting my own heart out of my chest and leaving it with him, because I could not bear to keep it apart from him. It hurt. It still hurts now._  
  
'Then I think we have reached a point where I can no longer involve myself. John, _shh_ ,' she hushed me as I started to protest. 'Not for myself. I told you before, I can bear to share you. I cannot bear to see you refusing to be shared, and being miserable for that reason and for my sake.'  
  
'What?' I asked, but a treacherous bubble of hope was forming in the base of my trachea, making it hard to swallow.  
  
'I do not believe you will ever be able to love me as you love him. Protest all you like, but it is the truth, and you know it. I would rather not endure the guilt of separating you, and I can see now that my noble husband is going to remain as stubborn as a mule on this issue. So I will release you. I love you, John. I love you so much that I am doing the single most ridiculous thing that I have ever done in my life. I have never been so selfless. You bring out the best in me, John. And so, I insist, this is what we will do. I will arrange things so there is no shame to it. Somehow we will manage that.'  
  
'No. No, I cannot let you...You are wrong, Caro, my wife, you cannot do this, it is not...' She had risen from her seat, and now walked to the door.  
  
'I have a friend nearby who takes in lodgers. I will discuss with her the possibilities of a set of rooms. I would still like to see you, sometimes, if I may. Unless that is too awkward for you, in which case I will move back to Banbury, but I have grown to like it here.'  
  
She was talking so fast, she had moved from introduction, through reasoning and into insanity with incredible speed. Now she left me alone and I took up my hat, not yet having removed my coat, and left the house. I needed to walk, to collect my thoughts.   
  
I turned towards the park and walked to the lake. The water calmed my seething brain. I could not do what Caroline was asking. I could not. It was wrong. I left all that behind when I was young. And yet, now she talked of separation if I refused. Did that not change the game? Of course it did. My mind seized upon it and would not let go. I could do whatever I wanted. She had released me. I was free. I could go to him, ask him if he were willing to indulge me, even as I was still married. Ask him if his passion still ran hot enough for me...  
  
For the first time it occurred to me that Holmes had struggled with our own separation as much as I. Granted, in my my mind, I could lay the blame on him, and thereby persuade myself that he deserved whatever suffering came his way; but really, that held no water, even with me.  
  
I could see it, now. Our time on Dartmoor had been very torture for him. In the bedroom, that first night, he had struggled with himself, not to touch me, not even to brush his hand over me. It had been sore temptation, too: unable to stop himself from coming in and sitting with me, he had, nonetheless, kept his distance, expended a great deal of effort in holding himself back. Then in the cupboard, he had trembled as he rested against me. I had dismissed it as the effects of the chase, had not even recalled it afterwards, but if I had wanted to kiss him, I was now certain that desire had also been in him. And Dartmoor had not been the only time.   
  
Whenever he had come to the house, there had been those moments: the occasions upon which our feet had touched under the dining table, and he had pressed his foot hard against my leg, then let it run, softly, in a caress of my calves that sent shivers through me that I had to excuse as a chill; simply reminding me that I had been his. Yet there had been restraint, even then. Whenever Caroline had left us alone together, I had always been painfully aware of my wife's presence in the next room, of being in our shared, marital home, and I had no desire to risk any sort of gesture of that kind under the circumstances. However, I was also aware that Holmes might have no such compunction. I had assumed, therefore, from his inaction, that his desire was merely to tease, to be mischievous with me, no longer, in actual fact, to touch at the slightest opportunity.   
  
I had been wrong. I could see that clearly now. He had held himself back from me in the truest spirit of friendship, and by brute force of will alone. Although it felt like self-aggrandisement even to think it, I could now admit that he still wanted me, still desired my body. Still hoped for me to change my mind and go to him, unhindered by morality. I chose, now, to do so.   
  
I turned towards Baker Street, feeling sure that I would find him at home today. I would enter those rooms and present myself to him. I would kiss him, I would touch him and hold him exactly as I wished, and I knew he would return my embraces. I knew he would. If I once put my arms around him and pressed my lips to his, he would wrap his own arms around me in return. He would hold me to him, and blue fire would course through me, knocking all common sense from me, leaving me to forget the world, and love him only.  
  
At the gate to the park, however, I was suddenly confronted with my wife, walking briskly along, past the entrance, about to step down to cross the road. She looked at me levelly.   
  
'I am on my way to find some accommodation,' she said, calmly, then turned away, waiting for a carriage to pass before she could step down. She was at the far side of the pavement, and I called to her, wanting her to return to me so that I could change her mind away from this lunatic course of action. I would not go to Holmes, I would simply persuade her to stay.  
  
She stepped away from me, and down into the road. She looked back as she crossed, and her face was unreadable, but it was not her face I watched. From around the corner, a carriage hurtled, its pair of horses galloping away from the driver, bits between their teeth. I opened my arms, waved them to warn her, but she frowned at me. The time was not long enough for this communication, but it stretched out in all the terrible detail of the passing seconds before the carriage hit my wife, knocking her clear across the street, where she landed with a crack I could hear plainly from my post on the kerbside.   
  
My spread arms folded back in as instinct brought my hands up to cover my mouth and hold back the scream of horror. Then time began to flow once more, and I found myself running, my medical training overcoming all my other instincts. I was by her side, touching her, smoothing my hands across the brow I had, only minutes before, been told I had lost the right to touch forever. Her glazed eyes stared up at me, without a hint of accusation, and I rocked back on my heels, landing in a seated crouch upon the pavement.   
  
There were people all around. Witnesses. They had seen... the carriage had gone, unable to stop, the driver, control lost, perhaps no fault of his, no blame to be apportioned. Perhaps a loud noise had startled the horses into their stampede. Who was I to the lady? Her husband? Well then sir, you will be greatly distressed. Come, sit over here. Is there someone we can fetch for you. Do you have a relative, a friend? Does the lady...?  
  
Tea in a china cup from the adjacent house, a sip of brandy from a tall gentleman's flask cane. Then my own voice, hoarse with shock, but certain in its intent:  
  
'Sherlock Holmes. He is my friend. Sherlock Holmes, please.'   
  
Then minutes of nothing, but a growing sense of horror that the emotion I was feeling in greatest measure was not grief, or anger, but relief. I struggled to alter myself, to make myself feel distress for the death of this lovely woman, who had given me all her love, and for whom I had, at the least, felt great affection... And there was nothing there. A nothing which burst into a great wave of disgusting, abhorrent joy as Holmes came around the corner, striding out at great speed, with his cane in one hand, his cloak billowing. He talked to the policeman who was taking down the statements of the witnesses, and took me by the arm, hauling me to my feet.  
  
We spent time in the street, in a cab, in corridors, in a morgue, in a small interview room. Holmes was there throughout. He spoke to them, not to me. I said only what I had to – the emotions through which I was trying to sort were too confusing, required too much attention to waste time on their pointless enquiries. They let us go at last, and Holmes took my arm and walked me out into the street.  
  
He bundled me into the first cab we saw, and sat next to me, not looking me in the eye. He still had not spoken a single word to me when we alighted at Baker Street and entered our dear old rooms, climbing the stairs to the landing, where he held the door open for me, and shut it behind us.   
  
He moved out of my line of sight for a moment, and returned with a tumbler of brandy, which he gestured for me to drink. I took it gratefully, and drank the whole, considerable measure in one gulp. He sat me on the sofa then, and crouched in front of me. As his hands fell on my knees and gripped there, I felt time slow back down to a sensible speed, and I listened as he spoke at last.  
  
'Watson...' There was a knock on the door, and Mrs Hudson pushed it open.   
  
'Doctor Watson,' she said, her voice shocked and low, though her body moved briskly to set the tea tray she carried onto the table so that she could approach me. Holmes rose, his knees creaking as he unbent. I stood with him and allowed Mrs Hudson to wrap her arms around me and pull me gently against her bosom. Tears were welling in her eyes, but she was apparently doing her best not to cry. She let go then, sharing the dignity of her fortitude with me, not knowing that it was not needed.   
  
'Oh, Doctor Watson, you poor man. I just heard, from the boy at the door. There's hot sweet tea on the table. Mr Holmes, you will look after him for now? I am in the middle of baking day, or I would...' She looked over at Holmes, and he nodded, stepping closer to me, and gesturing me to sit at the table.  
  
'I will keep him the best company I can, Mrs Hudson,' he said, and the tenderness in his tone was as much for her as it was for me. She nodded and left the room to return to her baking, the smells of which were wafting up the stairs.  
  
I had only just taken my seat, and Holmes, having poured for us both, sat opposite me, when there was another knock at the door, and without any hesitation, it opened, and Lestrade swept into the room. I was thrust back in my mind to a night long before, when he had interrupted us in far less acceptable circumstances.  
  
Holmes' tone was icy when he stood and spoke:  
  
'Lestrade, to what do we owe the pleasure?' Lestrade had the good grace to look embarrassed about his sudden entry. He stood there, twisting his hat brim with nervous hands.  
  
'My apologies, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson; I heard the news just now when I returned to the station, and I had to come and offer my condolences and any assistance I might be able to provide. Shocking business, shocking.' He had taken a step forward, resting a hand upon my shoulder for an instant, then removing it hurriedly as he received the most dangerous and unpleasant of looks from my good friend. I frowned at Holmes, then at Lestrade.  
  
'Lestrade, you objected to my marriage altogether,' I  pointed out. My body was still shaking, but my mind was startlingly clear and untroubled in its own way.  
  
'I...I...' He stuttered into silence. Holmes had steepled his fingers and was regarding us over them with interest.  
  
'You said it was a terrible idea and that I should think again.'  
  
Lestrade had now had time to pull himself together and retaliate.  
  
'Nevertheless, Doctor Watson, it would be callous in the extreme for me to suggest that the death of your wife could be due cause for anything other than grief.' I sighed and nodded. Yes, grief was certainly what I should feel, for a fellow human being if not purely for my own spouse.  
  
I glanced back at Holmes, he looked calmly interested, and I raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if he had known that Lestrade had openly disapproved of my marriage. As I turned back to Lestrade, I felt Holmes' foot fall upon mine under the table, rubbing up the side of my ankle. The action brought back the most sudden and vivid memory of a day on the moors when he had untwisted the deep reticence of his own personality, and taken me apart with the simplest of touches. I felt the blood pounding through me, the first thrumming pulses of frustrated desire hitting me in the chest like great storm-blasts of wind.  
  
Lestrade seemed to have run out of anything to say. He nodded twice to himself, then once to me, once to Holmes.  
  
'Well, if there is anything I can do to be of assistance, you know where I may be found. My...my thoughts are with you.' He replaced his hat on his head, touched the brim to us and left.   
  
I stared at Holmes, as his foot continued to move gently against my own. Suddenly it was withdrawn, and he leaned forward, taking up his cup and signalling for me to do the same.  
  
'Drink your tea Watson; do as you have been told by our excellent landlady, then come back to the fireside. I wish to talk with you, if you will permit me?' I nodded, already sipping my hot, sweet tea, and he was silent as I drank, though after a while he rose, went to the fire and poked it back into life. When I had drained my cup, I rose carefully, so as not to upset the delicate equilibrium of mind over matter, which was holding back my ignoble emotions. I sat in my chair and at once he knelt before me again, his hands gripping my knees as he spoke in a low voice.  
  
'Watson, I did a terrible thing. Forgive me.'  
  
I shook my head to clear it. His words made no sense.  
  
'I forced you into marriage, when you did not desire it.'  
  
'What?'  
  
'You married because you believed me. For no other reason.'  
  
'I...' I stuttered to a halt. I wanted to say yes, yes! I wanted to voice again the affirmation I had made so brokenly in Slough, not all that long ago. But I could not. That would be to admit my own guilt. His mouth twitched in a rueful half-smile.  
  
'I know. I knew before I pushed you down the aisle. But I was too much of a coward to admit it. Watson. My dear, dear Watson. Will you admit that you did not love her, or is that too much to ask?' He looked so pathetically concerned that the shock still pinning me down almost lifted enough to let me laugh.  
  
'I did not love her, not as I should,' I said, feeling a great weight lifting from my shoulders. 'Oh, that is terribly wrong,' I continued, knowing that at the moment I was almost booking my direct ticket to hell. 'But, I enjoyed her company. She was a fine woman...' I stopped. I could not speak thus of a woman who had not been dead a day yet. Holmes ran his hands a little further up my thighs.   
  
'Never allow me to manipulate you like that. Never. No matter how you love me. Do not accept what I say as gospel, do not do it, man! It has almost killed me to know that you trusted me so, and that I betrayed your trust more dreadfully than you had ever imagined I could.'   
  
My mind finally worked its way through a little of the labyrinth.   
  
'But why, Holmes? Why push me away?'  
  
'Because you expected to be married again, and I could not bear to have it waiting for me in the future. Better to get it over with, to make the break clean. So you were correct in what you said: the first opportunity I had, I pushed you over the cliff to save myself. I was entirely selfish, but it almost destroyed me. I could not do without you very well. If you ever forgive me...'  
  
'If I...?' The thought that I would hold it against him had not crossed my mind. I went over his reasoning in my head. I should have been furious with him. As if from a distance, I could see that what he had done was unpardonable. But then, so were my actions. It was I who had married Caroline, not he. It was I who had lied before God and witnesses to tie her to me. It was I who had repented of my decision to marry her even before she had reached my side on our wedding day. It was I who had crushed my heart up small and hidden it away in a locked box so that its yearnings, its truth, could not disturb my falsified happiness. And Holmes had done nothing but suggest the path. Suggest it, and then seek at the first instant of its fulfilment to drag me back to him. The gift of the hatstand, the taking of my hand on any pretext during the times he had stolen me from my wife for a case. Who was more to blame?  
  
Who cared? Perhaps at that moment I lost all moral sensibility, but my heart was freed from its box and it leapt in my chest, and I forgave him in that same heart: I forgave him a thousand times over for every real wrong, and every perceived wrong he had ever done me. I forgave him and I loved him; loved him so much that when my hands took hold of him, and I fell forward to kneel on the floor with him, and I kissed his forehead and wrapped one arm around him so that he could not leave me, it was not achieved by my conscious mind, but by some part of me that was now adamant: I should never leave him again.   
  
My nose was squashed against him, my mouth open against his, not kissing, just breathing him in, while a lump at the back of my throat seemed to swell, affecting my brain and making me cling to him all the tighter. He shuffled around, pulling me with strong arms between his half-crossed legs, allowing me to wrap my legs awkwardly, painfully around him. Then he pulled me closer, hooked his chin over my shoulder, let me rest my head in the crook of his neck. Let me drowse there as he rocked me like a child and all the cares of adulthood, the fears and the doubts, left me for a while. He had never said he loved me, but I believed it now, as firmly as if he were me and I could see his very thoughts. That I loved him was barely even worth the confirming. If I had had the smallest part of my heart left to give, I would have given it to Caroline, but, as it turned out, Holmes already had the whole of it, and I could never have taken even a fraction of it back.   
  
'You are still in shock, my dear friend,' Holmes said, and I was about to chide him for teaching me my own trade, but he went on, 'You will feel grief for her at some point, no doubt, and then you will not consider yourself so dreadful a man. For you are a good man, Doctor Watson. The best man I know... The very best.' His rumbling voice faded into silence and I let myself feel nothing but the arms around me, the body at my front, the heart beating against my own. I wished he were right. Maybe he was.   
  
Then the image of my poor, dead, not-quite-anymore wife, rose into my mind, and I pulled myself back from him to observe him. What was it about him that had allowed me to let her go with such callousness? I stared at his face and he closed his eyes, as if to let me see it clearly without the distraction of those windows to the soul. I thought I saw a new line at the corner of each eye – laughter lines, an aunt of mine called them.   
  
Laughter. For whom had Holmes laughed in his life? For his parents? I doubted it, his family did not seem the type, if I were to judge by my small acquaintance with Mycroft. For school-friends, colleagues? It seemed unlikely. Who were they? He rarely mentioned them, and if he did, it was in largely contemptuous tones. For Mrs Hudson? Yes, perhaps. Rarely. He has always been inordinately fond of her and, when not shouting at her to carry out some task he deems imperative, can be quite gentle and obliging with her. For me then?   
  
Yes. Oh, yes. I have seen him laugh, and I am not counting the laugh he pretends for a case, nor the sarcastic guffaw of disbelief when his opinion of the gentlemen of the Yard is running particularly low. Not even that genuine laughter I have witnessed when, as for example during our short sojourn with his old acquaintance Musgrave, he has been intoxicated with spirits and possibly, I have always suspected, a small addition of his own choice of poison. Then he had laughed like a fool, and I was so overwhelmed by it that I, in a tipsy state myself, had laughed with him, only later realising what might have caused it, and souring my opinion of the occurrence. No. I mean his true laugh. That giggle I have mentioned before in these private pages. That laugh which represents true amusement, a moment of happiness. He laughs when I am there. And I can call it mine.  
  
My eyes moved across his face, taking in the blemish on his chin, the dip below each cheekbone when he breathed through his mouth or spoke. I read the shape of his nose and jaw, the bleed of lips into skin, the pattern of fine hairs escaping across his brow and from his hairline. I watched his pupils moving behind his eyelids, seeming to follow my movements blindly through the translucent skin. Then I turned from him to look into the fire, and he felt the change, shuffling closer to me, so that our legs touched.   
  
The fire crackled and popped. Some green log towards the back was putting up a fight, and spat nastily every half minute or so, the sparks hitting the fender, or singeing the already pock-marked hearth-rug in front of us. I stared at the brilliance at the centre of the fire. The three large logs stacked upon the grate described a small cavern at their centre, and it was an Aladdin's cave of sparkling brightness, bright white, shot with orange and the pale flickers of blues and greens at the edge.   
  
My face was hot with the flames, my knees protesting at the blaze focused on them, while my back remained cool. Holmes transferred his weight forward a little, so that he could reach up with one hand to touch my back. He felt the chill and grunted with dissatisfaction. Shuffling back a little, he moved himself behind me, settling with his legs hitched up to either side of me, his weight forward, in counterbalance to my own, so that he could pull me back against him, without having the pair of us topple over backwards like a pair of skittles. I leant against him, sliding forward as I did so, so that my head rested against his chest. His arms went around me, and I felt his chin come to rest on top of my head, then rub, softly, through my hair in gentle circles.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          
  
My poor, dead wife shattered like a thing of ice, and even the most moral part of me could not feel the sorrow I knew full well she deserved. In the end, she had been a mere substitute for the thing I wanted most, and now, with a little care and discretion, could have once more. I hated myself for it, but there was nothing to be done. I have seen horrors enough in my life. Maybe war, in the end, made me hard. Maybe my concern for my fellow man, on which I have always prided myself, is just another illusion in the face of my utter selfishness when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it is simply that I was never tempted so.   
  
I thank heaven that this set of scribblings can never be published. Quite apart from the illegality of Holmes' and my actions, I fear my general demeanour at that time showed me in a poor light. In younger days, if asked, I would have imagined that the death of my wife might have occasioned a long period of grief. Sorrow would be the order of the day; anger, even. But in truth, the only emotions I was able to muster were relief and joy. My whole body was bubbling, fizzing with the thrill of freedom, or rather, of an enslavement with which I could easily cope.  
  
When you look at me, and think that I failed, in the end, to be quite human, remember that I had started out thinking the same thing of Holmes, and yet he turned out to be the most human man I know. Allow me this one failure. Allow me to admit that it happened, and that this was an end to it. Allow me to forget the time I trusted the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known, so greatly that I forgot to search my own heart. Allow me to admit that I still trust him. Allow me to rest my head on his chest and listen to him breathe, and admit, with absolute honesty, that I would have any other human die a thousand times, though it blew my Hippocratic oath to shreds, rather than have him taken from me. Allow me to kiss him, now, and a thousand times in the future, and let him, oh, please, let him always kiss me back.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part three of the Hatstand Trilogy coming soon... :)

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews craved and deeply, deeply appreciated :)


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